"We're going to animate you, Dwyane, for our new Team Xtreme video!"
"That's cool. Just make sure I kinda look like Blair Underwood, aight?"
Maybe I'm projecting here, but nobody in a Coors Light commercial -- the "funny" ones or the "cool" ones -- ever looks like they want to actually be in a Coors Light commercial. In both genres, and no matter how they actors are supposed to behave, you can still see a hint of confusion and ambivalence. I've seen that look many times before: at temp jobs, especially the really pointless clerical ones. Commitment is impossible, but it must be feigned. Examples:
1. These guys are trying to be upbeat and funny, but they know this stucks. Marv Levy is not in the same room with them. It's like working on a George Lucas movie:
2. And this dude, in the one with the Dick Butkus picture? That eye roll is the definition of half-hearted:
3. And in this shot from a classically tepid "Love Train" spot, the chick literally says, "why are we here?" She's the most authentic thing in the commerical:
I'd do more of these, but this process kinda sucks.
But it's actually chocolate sauce. Y'know, like Heidi Klum, as you see here.* Except you strap a stuffed shorebird to your crotch to hide your chucky, and you use little BP flowerbursts to cover your nipples. You can cover your ass with an object of your choosing (mud plug?). YOU'VE GOT SEVERAL MONTHS TO PERFECT IT, SO GET CRACKIN' NOW.
(NOTE: SHOREBIRD-ON-CHUCKY NOT SHOWN)
* Klum's choco-slathered pics were published before the Gulf Coast oil spill and therefore she has nothing to do with the idea for this Halloween costume.
recognizes the influx of micronutrients, and within minutes my bowels
relinquish a fine display of fecal prowess. It is approximately 5:30
p.m., not within my normal dook-realm.
Anthony Bourdain, if you're reading this, I say: This is your next
frontier. Don't riff on the meat or how good it tastes. Tell me if your
body was so pleased that you had to un-cage a glorious king snake
Make it be so.
DO YOU FIND YOURSELF SLIGHTLY DISCOMBOBULATED WHEN FACED WITH THE DECISION OF HOW TO PRONOUNCE 'GYRO' WHEN THE PERSON SERVING YOU IS OBVIOUSLY NOT GREEK?
Stumbled across Kay Kay today while trolling for hip-hop flotsam. SHE TALKS ALL NICELY AND MAKES BEATS RIGHT IN FRONT OF YOUR EYES. IT COULD BE A TV SHOW. YOU WOULD WATCH IT THE SAME WAY YOU WATCH THOSE FOOD NETWORK LADIES. That's right, you and your girl, cuddled up on the couch, watchin' BEATS all day Saturday instead of FOOD. And your girl would be just as interested as you are. And maybe your girl would START MAKING BEATS FOR YOU. Yeah, that would be fantastic.
Kay Kay, to her credit, always tells you where she stops talkin' and starts slappin' on the drum machine. NOW THAT'S A LADY. Here it drops at 1:23. <--- METAPHOR, YO.
Sometimes you just gotta do the muh-fuckin' Chilly Willy. This snippet has a Great Recession theme. I think Chillz gets to keep the booster seat, however. It's a metaphor of some sort:
NOTE: Chillz is slightly more verbal than Curious George.
Lately I've stopped watching each episode about 10 minutes before the winner is announced. I just kinda drift away or conk out. But I don't care that I miss the resolution of the drama. The fun -- if it can be called that -- is in the mental appropriation-of-concoction, not the vicarious triumph. Maybe I'm secretly a hippie. Last night I stopped watching the Middle-Aged White Guys Championship after the food was delivered to the feasting zombies. Who won that shit? I dunno. And Ep. 1 of The Tattoos, Sideburns, Piercings and Annoying Siblings Collective? Some chick made meat out of wheat gluten, right?
|Where does one start with this? I'm fryin' my circuits with one-liners about Long John Silver's alone. More of the press release after the jump.|
FOR IMMEDIATE RELEASE
Christina Aguilera Lends Powerful Voice
in Fight to End Hunger as
Global Spokesperson for
World Hunger Relief Effort this Fall
Aguilera Raises Awareness of Hunger Issue by Appearing in PSA, Advertising, Posters and Online Campaign, FromHungerToHope.com
Louisville, KY, July 15, 2009 – Yum! Brands announced today that five-time Grammy Award winner Christina Aguilera is giving hunger a powerful voice by becoming the global spokesperson for World Hunger Relief.
Translation: "If we could, we would."
From the NYT:
Maybe the women are all hiding in the chic boutiques.
I am a man of few aristocratic proclivities, but I have no qualms expressing a seasonal urge to consume Pimms No. 1 Cup, perhaps at the expense of culturally mandated sojourns with mint juleps, a concoction that I find most pleasant, but perhaps lacking in intrigue, even when made with a highly preferable variety of bourbon.
I'm in line at the register. One kid comes inside to buy a Twix. I don't know how much a small Twix costs, but it's possible that the kid was going to buy it for less than a dollar and then sell it as part of the charity hustle -- for like, a dollar. That's a decent markup, percentage-wise, so I won't front on his acumen. (Or maybe he just wanted a Twix.)
Other kid comes inside, starts saying something to the kid with the Twix, who is in line beside me.
Twix kid stiffens up, waves his hands at the other kid and then whisper/screams: GO WATCH THE STASH.
Rule number one of the candy-charity hustle: Don't let the merchandise out of your sight.
Because, dude, if I'm out there on the sidewalk, and your Toblerone is unattended, I'm gonna gank it.
THA MRS.: What do you think of dinner?
POPPA: The halibut is good. So is the sauce.
THA MRS.: Ooh, "Dirty Jobs" is on soon.
POPPA: Wait, let me read what the episode is about.
[POPPA READS THE COMCAST SCREEN]
Mike teams up with the boys from Bartos Bait & Fish to catch leeches that will later be sold for fish bait. Then it's off to the Green Tripe factory in Hollister, CA where Mike helps make BARF (Biologically Appropriate Raw Food) for dogs.
POPPA: Nah, man, let's skip the "Dirty Jobs" while we're eating.
THA MRS.: I can accept that.
Now that Everything Officially Sucks And Baby Boomers Are Doomed To Be Unsatisfied Assholes Forever, even the barolo is bad, apparently. You could almost taste the global economic desperation in this, if the sense of entitlement weren't totally in the way:
Clara is badass. But her frugality is way too familiar. I was cooking chow like this regularly during the Bush 1/Early Clinton era. Except, y'know, I was blowing most of my paycheck on beer & records. And not, uh, survival:
Somebody in the product-design department had to know that this lil' nub is vaguely penile:
This not the first time that Tropicana has fucked with me.
Don't feel bad if you feed shit paste to your pet, because you're not alone, and the fate of the Internet depends on you, anyway: Almost exactly 99.7 percent of YouTube videos feature mutts snarfing peanut butter, and WE DON'T WANT YOUTUBE TO DIE FROM NEGLECT, BECAUSE AMERICA IS AWESOME.
ADDENDUM: Mike is like, "leash 'em, you ingrate"
If you think Guy Fieri is a pseudo-biker/tattoo-punk dude (or even just a douchey poseur in those modes), you're flat wrong, sweetcheeks. The bottle-blond chucklehead from the TGI Friday's commercials is merely a tender crypto-hippie with confusing tastes in apparel. DO NOT FEAR HIM:
My dad had a recipe for sardines that was intended to mask most of their smell while not totally diminishing their fishy pungency. He made the dish on intuition, like a hobo, with no official measurements. It went something like this:
• A can of the humble minnows (in plain water, not in oil or mustard)
• Some raw onion, diced
• Some vinegar
• A little salt
• And "more black pepper than you think you can stand."
That last bit of instruction was not to be ignored: After the first four ingredients were in the bowl, he'd forcefully shower the grayish mash with a significant dusting of pepper, to the point where the sneezy condiment was the only visible substance. Then he'd stir it all up and we'd eat it on saltine crackers.
It was totally a Depression-era snack, a way to turn very cheap protein into something zingy. He might've learned it in the Navy, or it might've been passed down through the coal miners and steel workers in the family. I've forgotten those details. Dad, for his part, saw it as a minor test of one's manhood: eat this ... it'll put hair on your chest. And he typically reserved it for times when we were all around the TV, watching sports on the weekend in the dead of winter.
We consumed it during Larry Holmes fights or while watching ABC's Saturday afternoon lineup, which began with professional bowling and ended with "Wide World of Sports." That show, hosted by Jim McKay, was the early booster for the Ironman triathlon, which seemed futuristic and mind-boggling back then.
The February 1982 version of the race was particularly dramatic: Julie Moss, a college student, was leading during the marathon portion. She was a newbie -- a total underdog -- and it was an inspiring moment. Dad, perhaps sensing the drama, made some sardines. We settled in with our fish and crackers to watch the final moments. Moss, looking tiny and vulnerable, was wavering. Her body was rebelling. She collapsed. She stood up again. Her pants were wet. Something dark was running down her leg. As she crawled to the finish, Kathleen McCartney passed her to win the women's division. Moss eventually finished, filthy and dazed. Her effort was a defining moment in sports history. In my house, we looked at each other. We looked down at the sardines. We didn't finish them.
I still make 'em a few times a year, though.
(read the complete and ongoing Secret History here)
|Whoo-hoo to the Szechuan Gallery menus that are scattered around Shaw every few months. The weird picture of Bill Clinton is a nice touch, especially because it looks like a third-generation thing: an official presidential portrait, defaced electronically with something scrawled on Bill's forehead, then retouched lovingly in Microsoft Paint for use on a Chinese takeout menu. (Click on the image to get a big ol' PDF, so you can see what I'm sayin'.)
And I'd like to think that the reproduced Washingtonian cover is more "resourceful" than "clumsy."
Poppa Cesspool keeps a tidy vegetable garden in anticipation of the apocalypse. When the horsemen hit, I wanna know how to grow my own food. Anyway, a battalion of aphids had invaded my heirloom tomatoes in recent days, but on this triumphant Friday, the pests had fallen prey to a methodical column of tiny black ants. I could see the warriors triumphantly carrying away the soft green bodies of their victims. Delicious. In honor of the victory, I remind you of the greatest buggy thing in online history:
From the WSJ:
In front of a quartet of skinned lambs hung by their hocks, contestants compared carcasses in profile. Then they drew near to gauge the udder fat. At tables of hams, briskets and bacon, they knelt on the floor to see whether cuts were sliced at the correct angle. A sloppily cut roast got looks of consternation from successive waves of competitors.
Slightly related: The Freakonomics blog talks to a hooker.
Oh, hey, some knucklehead found me by Googling "is safe for women to eat gyro meat." The slightly improper syntax makes me think that it was a non-native English speaker, which makes it even more awesome. I'll go out on a lamb (hardee-har!) and dispense medical advice: If you're gestating a baby, what is better than to eat the baby of another species?
Seems like they should've waited for the holiday leftover season, but whatever. And why are those people in the picture so mad? I mean, it's probably a pretty bland, inoffensive dish, but that's no reason to be all depressed & shit:
Let's see ... we at Chubby's Barbecue on U.S. 15 on Monday, around 3:30 p.m.
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.
I am such a child, and yet, a man. Mmm, meat.
I mean, if you've seen a true banana hammock in action, even if it's just the Borat version, you know that it's the cock -- and not the balls -- that makes all the difference.
So two cherries? Please. This drink has to be all about the meat, yo.
Or am I missing something here? Is it that the banana is already in the drink (i.e. via the liqueur), so you have to add the balls physically somehow?
Whatever. If you're ordering a Banana Hammock, you should have to eat a dick. Case closed.
From the WSJ:
The Los Angeles Dodgers are rolling out a new marketing experiment: They're betting that several thousand of their fans will stomach steep price increases for some of the worst seats in the stadium, in return for being able to eat all the hot dogs, peanuts, popcorn, nachos and soda they can handle. Tickets range from $20 to $40 apiece, depending on the allure of the match-up and whether they are bought by groups or individuals.
High-end seating areas in sports venues have long offered all-you-can-eat food as part of the package. But the Dodgers are at the vanguard of a new trend -- letting hoi polloi in on the buffet. Dodgers executives say a handful of other teams across pro sports have already contacted them about copying the concept, including the Philadelphia-based owners of the National Basketball Association's 76ers and the National Hockey League's Flyers.
OK, so, if there's a city where this idea belongs, it's Philly. And I say that with mustard-slathered, nitrite-engorged pride. I can wolf down some ballpark grub with the best of 'em. But I'm actually surprised that two Philly franchises would be interested in the crappy seat/free eats concept: It seems totally out of character that the Sixers or Flyers would be looking to give away anything that otherwise equates to profits.
And BroTown's fans certainly are used to being fleeced regularly, if not by the teams themselves (repeat: no titles since '83 ... no titles since '83 ... no titles since '83), then by the concessionaires (anybody remember those friggin' Nylon Bros. beers with the ice in 'em?). We all know the feeling: UPON ENTERING STADIUM, PLEASE OPEN WALLET SO USHERS CAN VACUUM UP THE MONEY. Perhaps only Dave & Busters is more brutal on discretionary income.
But back to the meta-point ... that's right ... the Sixers and Flyers suck donkey dick, and it might be years before either franchise is a winner again. They should be giving away food as penance, not as a marketing ploy.
I know I'm not the only one who saw this: Tony was definitely sipping from a mini-can of Budweiser in last night's "Sopranos" episode. It was little, and it didn't just look little because Gandolfini has big meat-hooks. The photo evidence seems to back me up. There is scant online evidence, however, that Anheuser-Busch still makes Bud in a 6-ounce, 7-ounce or 8-ounce can. Yes, there are multiple feature stories about the 10-ouncers sold in St. Mary's County, Maryland. And beer-can-collector sites have lots of pictures of mini-cans from other eras. But my search-fu came up weak when I looked for modern distribution of the ol' Bud pony can, or whatever you'd call it. (Bobby Bacala, by contrast, is apparently a Heineken keg-can man.)
... is the task you have to complete to win the free meal.
Immediately after eating, you are placed in a holding pen, and you have to go eight hours without crapping your pants. As of today, there have been no winners.
I tend to be a loyal customer, sometimes against my better judgment. But I will aggressively milk that loyalty for whatever it's worth, especially if a corporate chain has some sort of frequent buyer plan, like one of those little club cards that gets an ink stamp or a sticker every time you make a purchase.
The paper system seems to be dying off, though, and it's makin' me cranky. First, Subway nixed its little sticker-and-card system because people were counterfeiting the stickers. Then, Cosi bagged its stamped cards in favor of plastic, because, well it's a coffee chain, and my assumption is that the corporate chiefs figured out they were missing multiple opportunities to collect customer data. In the coffee biz, simply suckling at the teet is no longer enough: The teet-suckling customer must want to grab the teet, caress the teet, gaze longingly at the teet, make yummy-yummy noises in the general direction of the teet, construct a social life around the teet, crave the teet constantly, feel an instant psychological softening upon perceiving the teet's logo, subconsciously promote the teet to non-teet-adoring humans, guzzle the teet's limited-time-only seasonal offerings, and buy teet-related merchandise, too. In the mind of the teet, the suckle-and-run move is goddamn un-American. That said, at least Cosi isn't peddling lame CDs.
(For the record, I've never been to a Hooters. And thank Jay-Hova for the Dunkin' Donuts campaign that plays up the idea of grabbin' a joe and gettin' on with life. It's like the Marines: They never stopped marketing the idea of the true and the proud and the badass. All that scholarship-and-lifestyle stuff is for the other three branches.)
Anyway, in some cases, I've fully committed to expressing my consumer loyalty electronically -- the camera shop, the local books-and-records chain, the drug store, the supermarket -- but in those cases, the option was a no-brainer: Being in the club leads to distinct value, often in cash-equivalent discounts and coupons, and most of those retailers distribute their club-rendered savings and bonuses across different brands. (And in some cases, I was able to sign up under a pseudonym.) At Cosi, however, loyalty and the surrender of personal information only means more Cosi product. That teet ain't that delicious, y'know?
And Subway is like, "we know you'll be back no matter what we do, because you're a cheap motherfucker." Ingrates.