I can watch this over and over and over and over and over again. But I gotta admit, it would've been better if the kid was rubbing feces on the walls, too. In fact, you could turn the whole commercial into a mini-Aristocrats joke:
After decades of communist rule, the Russian people haven't come up with a world-class punk band or a standup comedian who can erase the stain of Yakov Smirnov. No, their idea of fun is spamming the shit out of us. At least Russia's rich assholes prefer London. I mean, they probably think the spam is funny. Bully for them.
And I'm actually kind of confused by it. Should I be buying lingerie for myself? Should I be buying it for Tha Mrs.? Is there something in my vast Yahoo inbox* that says, "this guy needs to have a lanky model on his screen at all times?" Or is there something in my vast Yahoo inbox** that says I'm either a transvestite or a dude who needs to buy his wife some lingerie? Maybe I'm more spooked than confused.
*I added the word "Yahoo" to the phrase "vast inbox" because I knew you would crack some sort of foul joke otherwise.
If you watched a lot of Channel 11 and Channel 9 when you were a kid -- that's WPIX-TV and WOR-TV to all you uncultured heathens who studied way too much -- then you know about Crazy Eddie. You may have googled him; I never did. A few months ago, when I got into a discussion about "the most obnoxious New Yorkers of the 1980s," his name came up pretty quickly after we dispensed with the usual suspects (Trump-Sharpton-Koch-Stern-Sliwa-Steinbrenner-etc.). Still, I didn't bother to do any research. So, y'know, thank you New York Times Magazine and your story about the tightness of the Syrian Jews in Brooklyn:
For many years, the most famous SY in the world was Eddie Antar,
known professionally as Crazy Eddie. In the ’70s, he revolutionized the
home electronics business and created an empire.
retail theater better than Crazy Eddie. His souk-smart salesmen — many
of them relatives and friends from the enclave — choreographed the
shopping experience, waltzing the zboon (SY slang for “customer”) in well-rehearsed steps toward the be’aah, the sale. His ads (“His prices are insane!”)
were commercial performance art. And when he was caught defrauding his
investors for almost $100 million dollars and subsequently fled to
Israel, Eddie provided an international drama that ended in extradition
The Crazy Eddie case became a cause célèbre,
shattering longstanding community rules of silence and decorum. Eddie’s
J-Dub wife, Diane, caught him in flagrante delicto with his
mistress, who also happened to be a J-Dub named Diane, on the last day
of December 1983 — a confrontation remembered among old-timers as the
New Year’s Eve massacre. The massacre was a real bean-spiller, and it
was followed by the testimony of Eddie’s first cousin (and partner and
C.F.O.) Sam E. Antar on how the illegal schemes had been carried out.
This gave the United States Attorney prosecuting the case, Michael Chertoff, (now the secretary of the Department of Homeland Security), more than enough to work with. Eddie went away for six years.
the late Toussie, however, Eddie Antar was not expelled from the
community. In fact, both Sam and Eddie live in the enclave today. Sam
has a simple explanation. “They don’t usually take back rats,” he told
me. “But everybody in our community knew that Eddie was setting me up
to take the fall, especially after he skipped out to Israel leaving me
holding the bag. I had worked for the Antar family my whole life. But
because of the betrayal factor, I haven’t been ostracized. There was no
edict against me.” As for Eddie, he is still considered mi’shelanu, “one of us.” “He did his time,” Sam said. “He paid the price. That’s the way people see it.”
He paid the price. But his customers didn't. Antar wasn't in those TV commercials, though. It was a radio DJ, Jerry "Dr. Jerry" Carroll. Youtube:
It's Thursday, roughly the same time of day. The conflicting urges:
1. Go get a colonic. Loved the tender beef brisket sandwich, oh Chubbster. I ate the whole thing. The mac & cheese was divine, as was the pork & beans, which was mostly pork. The beans just kinda clung randomly to the meat, like marsupial babies hugging momma. But beyond all of that deliciousness, I'm pretty sure that about 40 percent of that brisket is still bounding around inside of me somewhere. (Side note: I've never had a colonic.)
2. Go back to Chubby's. Tha Mrs. had the pulled-pork sandwich -- and brought about half of it home. I guess I could raid her stash (if she hasn't eaten it yet), but that would be wrong, because she might be saving it for her own secondary feast. That leaves me with the urge to get in the car, drive back out to Emmitsburg, and get my grub on.
Yeah, yeah, the "I Ran" video is funny; it's proof that Samberg can still deliver; it validates the conventional wisdom that Armisen is a bit-player's bit-player. But I'm so hung up on Adam Levine. Tha Mrs. put it this way: "Is that guy capable of emoting?" And my answer was: "He doesn't have to emote because he can get poontang any time he wants to. Any time. If you know that about yourself, then why bother to emote?" That is, Adam Levine is not an artist. There are good-looking artists who still must emote because their craft obligates them to. Levine is different -- his public image is a direct conduit to copulation. No art is necessary. He sings stoically, he looks good, he gets ass. Emoting would only cloud up the math; it would waste energy that otherwise could go toward fornicating. Another way to put it: His job is to remember the melody and not make any weird faces. Then he puts his penis into vaginas. Darwin would love this.