Tuesday, October 30, 2007

Ad In, Ad Out

With David gone, I’ve been watching his TV more often. And being a gifted observer of life, I can’t help but notice some things.

Like commercials, for example:

Professional driver on a closed course. Thanks to my not-so evil twin’s massive flat screen, I can actually read the disclaimers at the bottom of automobile commercials. And they’re ridiculous.

A car spins and skids across the street into a tight parallel parking spot. A truck uses its brakes and a massive chain to bring a landing plane to a halt on the runway. A pickup careens through rough terrain and finds itself in Loch Ness.

The companies selling these vehicles—or more specifically, the lawyers in said companies—feel the need to tell us these are “professional drivers on a closed course.” Often they will add the line, “Do not attempt.”

Why? Does the disclaimer really keep YOU from throwing an industrial chain on your truck to stop a moving plane?

The Commish of the More Taste League. One of may favorite ads in the past six months features John C. McGinley as the fictional commissioner of the fictional More Taste League (which apparently exists only to force 20-something white males to drink the very real Miller Lite).

If you are not familiar with McGinley, you should be. From his first movie role 20 years ago in Platoon and his turn as Charlie Sheen’s stock trading buddy in Wall Street to his performances as one of the Michael Bolton-loving “Bobs” in the classic Office Space and his wiseass character Dr. Perry Cox on NBC’s Scrubs, he rocks.

Line for line, pound for pound, dollar for dollar, he is the greatest actor of our … nay, of ANY generation.

As “The Commish,” he verbally assaults non-Miller Lite drinkers. And it doesn’t get any better than his trademark tone: sarcastic, slightly frustrated, and completely lacking humility.

Seasonique birth control. Split screens representing split personalities are a simple rhetorical device, never used more effectively than in this commercial for Seasonique, the pill that gives women fewer periods.

I’m riveted. One facet of this brunette’s personality, the spunky “Emotional,” saunters about on the right side of the screen while wearing a revealing booby shirt. She grins like a fun-loving coed, praising this new, different pill that lets her bleed less—and have menstruation-free sex more often.

So far, so good.

Meanwhile, the “Logical” persona of our heroine occupies the left side of the screen. She sports a tired ‘80s haircut, wears her argyle sweater over a neck-to-wrist plain white shirt, and scowls at “Emotional” while delivering lines like, “You KNOW how I feel about ‘different!’”

Later in the ad, “Logical” sits upright in her plain white chair, searching on her latop, without any apparent feeling, for medical information. She looks every bit the librarian—and not in the junior-high schoolboy wet-dream fantasy way.

“Emotional,” on the other hand, sprawls in a fuck-me pose on the fuck-me cushion of her fuck-me comfy chair. She even casts furtive glances at “Logical” as if to say, “If you weren’t my doggish alter ego, I’d rip off that travesty of a sweater and do you RIGHT NOW!”

The message is clear: Logic is boring and asexual but emotion is hot and horny. This ad sure could use some disclaimers.

Left side: “Do not attempt.” Right side: “Do me.”

Wednesday, October 17, 2007

Think About the Children

Hi. David Amulet’s evil twin here. I’m not the writer he is, but I’m filling in for him while he remains AWOL.

And I’m pissed off.

No, not because he’s gone. That part’s great—I get to eat his food, drink his wine, sleep with his wife, cash his checks … it’s good work if you can find it.

I’m furious, instead, because of a story I just saw. Some jackass in Israel doesn’t think the world has enough whiny, puke-faced, shit-in-their-pants, burden-on-the-world kids running around.

I can understand people wanting one child, even though the little vermin annoy me. Two is pushing it … but I’m willing to look the other way. Three? Well, that’s just damn irresponsible.

But this Bedouin Arab in Israel has 67 kids. Yes, sixty-freakin-seven. And he wants more.

He told an Israeli newspaper he knows“… many women who wish to marry me and there is no lack of women. I never had a problem with such things.”

OK, maybe true. Same thing for me (and even Amulet). But that doesn’t mean you need to impregnate everyone.

Even worse, this guy doesn’t really have a job, except for herding camel and goats. Israeli taxpayers chip in, though—government assistance helps pay for the consequences of his inability to keep his sperm to himself.

The article points out that this ass-clown isn’t the only one. Some seed-sprayer in Dubai has at least 78 children and wants to have 100.

This is disgusting. Bringing even ten percent of that number of kids into the world is stupid. It’s bad for the children, it’s bad for the resource base that has to support them, and it’s bad for each uterus that these sick bastards use to inflict their pain upon the earth.

There’s only one person dashing enough, smart enough, and downright studly enough to improve the human race single-penisedly. And that’s me. These pretenders had better stop knocking women up.

Or you’ll see me get really pissed.

Friday, October 05, 2007

What's in a Cave?

Homo sapiens is a curious species, never satisfied with the here and now. No matter what our age, the urge to explore is in our genes.

(Since junior high, I’ve also hoped that the ladies have the urge to explore in my jeans … but that’s not relevant to this story.)

We have extended our wanderlust from continents to the entire globe to the solar system, and yet we keep finding new things to amaze us. In the realm of astronomy, discoveries ranging from volcanoes on Jupiter’s moon to lakes on the surface of Saturn’s moon Titan keep space junkies like me wondering what we’ll see next.

Here’s something. According to a story on, NASA’s Mars orbiters have discovered possible caves on the Red Planet’s surface. Seven, in fact.

For the experts, this suggests a higher probability of underground habitats that could moderate the temperature swings the surface suffers—and possibly better conditions for indigenous life on Mars at some point in its history.

For me, it presents likely locations for some well-known disappearances:

Ambrose Bierce. The witty author vanished in the Chihuahua state of Mexico in 1913. Mars could be his current location—it’s a hell of a lot more likely than in the belly of one of the Taco Bell dog’s hungry ancestors.

Amelia Earhart. In 1937, she disappeared while flying over the South Pacific. Maybe her plane simply had better range than we ever suspected.

Glenn Miller. The famous bandleader was traveling from England to France in 1944 and never arrived. If he went to Mars, he could have invented new forms of music we can’t even imagine. Or maybe just the same crap he did down here.

D.B. Cooper. This story is amazing. A man in 1971 receives $200,000 in ransom, hijacks a plane, and jumps out over the Pacific Northwest—never to be heard from again. Instead of descending to Earth, did he have a rocket pack and ascend to Mars?

Jimmy Hoffa. This American labor leader vanished in 1975. Given the power of the unions at the time, it’s possible he was sent on a secret mission to set up the first labor organization on the Red Planet.

Natalee Holloway. Aruba is a long way from Mars, true … but investigators haven’t turned up any trace of this Alabama teenager who disappeared on a high school trip in 2005. NASA rovers should add blond hair to their list of things to look for in their meanderings.

Madeleine McCann. In May, this three-year-old went missing from a resort in Portugal while her parents had a bite to eat nearby. I recognize that millions of miles is a long way to crawl, especially through interstellar space, but I haven’t heard many better ideas.

David Amulet. Last week, he just faded away. Gone, into thin air, like a ghost. Did he go up to Mars? Nobody knows, but thankfully I—his evil twin—will happily fill in for him. Ladies and gentlemen, prepare for some tabasco-flavored posts.

I'm not nearly as nice as my twin.