I'm just going to do these whenever I feel like it!
12:45 PM: Wake up. Eat at plate of spaghetti. Get out of bed.
1:00PM: Take shower
1:20PM: End shower with ritual masturbation.
1:45PM: Breakfast. Something light, like a grilled cheese sandwich or a sleeve of Oreo's. Get dressed and then check if baseball bets paid off. Cry. Make sure you aren't bankrupted.
2:15PM: Head my way over to campus. My Introduction to Slowly Accepting Mental Retardation doesn't start until later, so I head over to nearby Starbucks to smoke cigarettes and look cool in front of minors.
2:35PM: Swing shift at SB's is pretty slim. Only uggos with chicken legs. I would try to make them feel sorry about themselves, but I'm still recovering from 4 bong hits I took in the parking lot.
3:00PM: Then attack: go to class, take notes, get distracted, wander off mentally, come back for a few seconds, Hey look at that, I wonder if anyone else notices? Am I real? Where's my pen? I start breathing heavily, and some other stoner from across the room sees me. He's drawing a cartoon pipe on his syllabus.
Marijuana... the one thing holding me down. That, and the baseball gambling.
And thats the prime, perbong, reclover, of my Weed Fit Day.
Thank you very much. Tell your friends! Also, a show.
Michael Kaye
Michael Kaye watches commercials... nearly all of them. Not only can he sit through these 30-second "films" that try to convince you to buy shit you don't need, he can analyze them. He can pick apart a national ad and make sure it runs out of the room crying. But most of all he tries to evaluate their values (which are nearly, always vacant).
Sunday, August 21, 2011
Thursday, July 7, 2011
A Good One...
I haven't posted anything new or even looked at this blog for a few weeks. Things build up, and I'm not able to get to hating things as often. After some review, I am a real downer. I think I have a real problem trying to find the good things in life. Maybe its because this blog has made me lose focus on the actual programming and hone in on the advertising. I am like a baker who is allergic to flour. So I decided to try to something I like in advertising, but only once a week, because this will be my greatest endeavor yet. Without much adieu:
You don't fold your arms when you pitch, Wilson.
ESPN hits a home run with these home-made commercials. They really run the bases when they get a well known sports gentleman, like the scary meth-using fellow, to interact with their "anchors." I sure do feel a wild pitch crawl up my spine when I see what time it is in Bristol, Connecticut (although this may be Los Angeles because Jay Harris is on the western version of SC). I sure do hope I don't strike out with all of these goofy baseball terms that I don't understand... JK.
Baseball ranks amongst the few things I watch live these days, everything else is banished to the DVR until I call upon it like a concubine in my palace. The others being football and SNL.
Brian Wilson, as many of you know, was the closing pitcher for the World Champions San Francisco Giants, and he was a damn good one to boot. He first gained attention during the playoffs when dedicated SF fans would strap on fake, oil-black, itchy beards during home games and went into a frenzy when that barrel chested reliever marched onto the field. Last year, they beat the Philadelphia Phillie's in the pennant race, a team lead by Roy Halladay, the snazzy Jazz singer from the 1920's. Not really, but he did throw a perfect game during the season (rarer than a funny moment with Jimmy Fallon) and a no-hitter in the opening wild-card game (not as rare, so let's just say a funny moment with Horatio Sanz).
The best part about the Giants winning: the Texas Rangers losing. I get the fact that SF had not won the championship since they had moved to the city by the Bay, but the Rangers had never, never, never, ever been to the World Series, so they had so much more stake in it. Texans would go, "First time, and we already won? Damn, I'm glad to be a Texan!" And we would NEVER HEAR THE END OF IT! Never, never, never, ever, never. Plus, the Rangers had Josh Hamilton, the comeback story that Jesus wants to fuck, so that would have been another folk-tale Christians could bring up when trying to convert you. I get it: "Oh, its really sweet that they all used ginger-ale instead of champagne when they beat the Yankees." Frankly, I wanted to vomit. YOU JUST BEAT THE FRAKING YANKEES, ITS TIME TO GET BLASTED! You have just done a favor for the entire American league by taking those pin stripped bastards down a peg, so drucking frink up! Way to be a party pooper, Hamilton!
Anyways, Brian Wilson, yes. Let's face it: ballplayers aren't all too bright. Its not a downfall though, they'll make more money than any of us playing a game they love for their lives. THEY GET TO RETIRE A 40. Do you know any other position that allows you the financial freedom to retire at forty? Other than being dead at forty? However, a select handful of players have a sharp sense of humor, and one of them is Brian Wilson. After their victory in 2010, Brian Wilson said in an interview that he was going to go "Rage," but it was in this tone almost meant to freak the shit out of the four foot, female reporter, and thusly Middle America. Fucking AWESOME. I'm just so glad that he got the recognition from ESPN that he desrves, because he actually has a personality.
Thank You for Reading. Please tell your friends.
Michael Kaye
You don't fold your arms when you pitch, Wilson.
ESPN hits a home run with these home-made commercials. They really run the bases when they get a well known sports gentleman, like the scary meth-using fellow, to interact with their "anchors." I sure do feel a wild pitch crawl up my spine when I see what time it is in Bristol, Connecticut (although this may be Los Angeles because Jay Harris is on the western version of SC). I sure do hope I don't strike out with all of these goofy baseball terms that I don't understand... JK.
Baseball ranks amongst the few things I watch live these days, everything else is banished to the DVR until I call upon it like a concubine in my palace. The others being football and SNL.
Brian Wilson, as many of you know, was the closing pitcher for the World Champions San Francisco Giants, and he was a damn good one to boot. He first gained attention during the playoffs when dedicated SF fans would strap on fake, oil-black, itchy beards during home games and went into a frenzy when that barrel chested reliever marched onto the field. Last year, they beat the Philadelphia Phillie's in the pennant race, a team lead by Roy Halladay, the snazzy Jazz singer from the 1920's. Not really, but he did throw a perfect game during the season (rarer than a funny moment with Jimmy Fallon) and a no-hitter in the opening wild-card game (not as rare, so let's just say a funny moment with Horatio Sanz).
The best part about the Giants winning: the Texas Rangers losing. I get the fact that SF had not won the championship since they had moved to the city by the Bay, but the Rangers had never, never, never, ever been to the World Series, so they had so much more stake in it. Texans would go, "First time, and we already won? Damn, I'm glad to be a Texan!" And we would NEVER HEAR THE END OF IT! Never, never, never, ever, never. Plus, the Rangers had Josh Hamilton, the comeback story that Jesus wants to fuck, so that would have been another folk-tale Christians could bring up when trying to convert you. I get it: "Oh, its really sweet that they all used ginger-ale instead of champagne when they beat the Yankees." Frankly, I wanted to vomit. YOU JUST BEAT THE FRAKING YANKEES, ITS TIME TO GET BLASTED! You have just done a favor for the entire American league by taking those pin stripped bastards down a peg, so drucking frink up! Way to be a party pooper, Hamilton!
Anyways, Brian Wilson, yes. Let's face it: ballplayers aren't all too bright. Its not a downfall though, they'll make more money than any of us playing a game they love for their lives. THEY GET TO RETIRE A 40. Do you know any other position that allows you the financial freedom to retire at forty? Other than being dead at forty? However, a select handful of players have a sharp sense of humor, and one of them is Brian Wilson. After their victory in 2010, Brian Wilson said in an interview that he was going to go "Rage," but it was in this tone almost meant to freak the shit out of the four foot, female reporter, and thusly Middle America. Fucking AWESOME. I'm just so glad that he got the recognition from ESPN that he desrves, because he actually has a personality.
Thank You for Reading. Please tell your friends.
Michael Kaye
Wednesday, June 29, 2011
Liquid Stupidity
I'm no geography expert, but I thought Malibu was in California, not Jamaica.
Malibu Rum Bums
Nowhere in the commercial do we see their names, but apparently these two goobers are MC "Wonder Full" and DJ "Bernard." I assume the Bernard is in reference to the movie "Weekend at Bernie's 2," which takes place in the Virgin Islands, which might as well be Jamaica to your average American.
The recipe is simple and follows the rules of the cocktail: more than three ingredients, all ingredients are combined at one point, and it is made by a black man. A question, reader! Have you been on a cruise? Royal Caribbean? Cunard? Or the insufferable Carnival Lines? If not, consider yourself fortunate. Not only is there nothing to do (unless you enjoy slowly dieing) and they whole experience is made extra greasy by the modern form of slavery cruise companies have employed. Workers from the most impoverished countries in the world flock to work on these fatty armadas because the tips are good, if you get them. Other than that, you essentially toil away on this ships for months at a time and all to the tune to obese people screaming at you. AND WHITE PEOPLE CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF IT! So, I believe that Malibu Rum is trying to incite the joys white people experience when they have minorities serve them.
... Just sayin'
Thank You fot reading. Please, leave a comment, suggest commercials, tell your friends.
Michael Kaye
Malibu Rum Bums
Nowhere in the commercial do we see their names, but apparently these two goobers are MC "Wonder Full" and DJ "Bernard." I assume the Bernard is in reference to the movie "Weekend at Bernie's 2," which takes place in the Virgin Islands, which might as well be Jamaica to your average American.
The recipe is simple and follows the rules of the cocktail: more than three ingredients, all ingredients are combined at one point, and it is made by a black man. A question, reader! Have you been on a cruise? Royal Caribbean? Cunard? Or the insufferable Carnival Lines? If not, consider yourself fortunate. Not only is there nothing to do (unless you enjoy slowly dieing) and they whole experience is made extra greasy by the modern form of slavery cruise companies have employed. Workers from the most impoverished countries in the world flock to work on these fatty armadas because the tips are good, if you get them. Other than that, you essentially toil away on this ships for months at a time and all to the tune to obese people screaming at you. AND WHITE PEOPLE CANNOT GET ENOUGH OF IT! So, I believe that Malibu Rum is trying to incite the joys white people experience when they have minorities serve them.
... Just sayin'
Thank You fot reading. Please, leave a comment, suggest commercials, tell your friends.
Michael Kaye
Tuesday, June 28, 2011
Can't Make a Decent Speech Unless You Drink Piss
Time to shine, big guy! Let's make sure this room full of strangers hears you.
STANLEY: "I met Scott in high school. We sat next to each other in Mrs. Wilson's Sophomore English class, and man... did we drive that woman up a wall. (Pause for laughs) I just met this gentleman who banged a knife against his beer twenty seconds ago, and I just have to say: He and I have the same rapport that Scott and I share. So here's to the lucky bride and groom: You got too long of road ahead of you than you deserve!"
How do you follow a guy with a loud beer bottle? You take that fucking thing from his hand and break it over his face. "NO ONE MAKES MY INTRODUCTIONS FOR ME... Steve has always been a pretty crazy guy." Man has to take a stand when his position of Best Man, dammit.
Tell me, what exactly is a "Self-Respecting Drink?" Is it some sort of ale that doesn't take shit from lagers?
Thank you for reading. Sorry, its kinda short, but I've been busy this weekend with comedy things. If you like the blog, please, do not tell your friends.
Michael Kaye
STANLEY: "I met Scott in high school. We sat next to each other in Mrs. Wilson's Sophomore English class, and man... did we drive that woman up a wall. (Pause for laughs) I just met this gentleman who banged a knife against his beer twenty seconds ago, and I just have to say: He and I have the same rapport that Scott and I share. So here's to the lucky bride and groom: You got too long of road ahead of you than you deserve!"
How do you follow a guy with a loud beer bottle? You take that fucking thing from his hand and break it over his face. "NO ONE MAKES MY INTRODUCTIONS FOR ME... Steve has always been a pretty crazy guy." Man has to take a stand when his position of Best Man, dammit.
Tell me, what exactly is a "Self-Respecting Drink?" Is it some sort of ale that doesn't take shit from lagers?
Thank you for reading. Sorry, its kinda short, but I've been busy this weekend with comedy things. If you like the blog, please, do not tell your friends.
Michael Kaye
Friday, June 24, 2011
Insurance for Dawgs
Tell me: when did dogs develop a sense of ownership?
Why is that dog waiting by the front door? He obviously isn't abandoned or neglected, there are people in that house. Yet he needs to stick his little bitch nose through that mail slot, waiting for more interesting people to arrive. People who don't waste their time with their feet on ottomans and dropping dishes in the kitchen. Whoever that cracked out bitch was, she was tripping when that dog rushed by her. Thank God she didn't have a knife or anything sharp or that dog would have a shit ton more to worry about than cat burglars. Also, that dog's owner in the sitting room had the book closed on his leg, apparently just staring off into space. I like to imagine that he spiked his coffee with LSD and went on a bad trip, hallucinating his dog owned all of the shit he did and was worried about someone stealing it. HIS DAWG IS A DOGGLEGANGER!
It was a slow news day for the Lakeshore Globe (The shore's best news source). When is the last time you read a news story about something being burgled? Unless it was the Aerospace Museum's perfect model of a nuclear reactor, it isn't front page, headline material. If you let your eyes wander south you see that the story doesn't even follow the headline. Apparently "Valley area records record growth" and "She's 3rd brightest but hard gal to see" (whatever the fuck that means) beat out the story of someone being ripped off. The "3rd Brightest" story brings up images of an unmade idiot savant movie that features a woman with Aspergers turning invisible. But no, Traveler's makes sure that you focus on your shit being stolen.
Then the music starts: the OCD/paranoid anthem for 2011. "I just want to be OK, be OK, be OK. I just want to be OK OK O K OK OOOOOOOOOOO OKKK O K OK OK OK OKOKOKOK!" I wonder if Ingrid Michaelson, the singer/songwriter, was told she had terminal cancer the day before and she wrote this song in a desperate bargain with God. "God, if I can only just be 'OK' I'll surrender my soul to you. I'll suck yo dick!" The short chords and repetition add a sense of playful suspense.
What could have this dog all worked up? What can possibly be in his small doghouse that sends him into a shit spiral? Does this dog have a title deed or Superbowl ring that needs protection? No, its a couple of chew toys and a bone. Strategically a tiny car and boat, implying that Traveler's covers your tiny, plastic cars and boats. This brings me to my major issue: too long have companies compared their customers to dogs. Its a clever metaphor, don't get me wrong, dogs spend little time thinking and eat every piece of shit that looks edible, much like the average consumer. However, if Traveler's wants to attract a clientele that consists of people who smartly save and invest their hard earned money, then I think that they should stop appealing to the canine demographic.
The one saving grace of this ad: its anti-Sovereign Citizen stance. Don't know what that is? Read the wiki and then watch this 60 Minutes. These charming residents of the American South and Alaska (the "Alabama of the North") feel that they have the right to defend their belongings with their own, god-given brute force with the assistance of automatic weapons. And that is just what our little dog friend does, he posts up on his domicile's entrance and steadfastly protects what be his. Like a sovereign. Days passed, and he realized what so few of his Kingly brethren had realized: that protecting your shit all of the time is boring. You can't go for walks, you can't get out of the rain, and you definitely can't fuck the neighbor's poodle in their front yard. Life is tough. So Traveler's offers you the peace of mind that prevents God Complex, all while taking your money.
Thank You For Reading,
Michael Kaye
Why is that dog waiting by the front door? He obviously isn't abandoned or neglected, there are people in that house. Yet he needs to stick his little bitch nose through that mail slot, waiting for more interesting people to arrive. People who don't waste their time with their feet on ottomans and dropping dishes in the kitchen. Whoever that cracked out bitch was, she was tripping when that dog rushed by her. Thank God she didn't have a knife or anything sharp or that dog would have a shit ton more to worry about than cat burglars. Also, that dog's owner in the sitting room had the book closed on his leg, apparently just staring off into space. I like to imagine that he spiked his coffee with LSD and went on a bad trip, hallucinating his dog owned all of the shit he did and was worried about someone stealing it. HIS DAWG IS A DOGGLEGANGER!
It was a slow news day for the Lakeshore Globe (The shore's best news source). When is the last time you read a news story about something being burgled? Unless it was the Aerospace Museum's perfect model of a nuclear reactor, it isn't front page, headline material. If you let your eyes wander south you see that the story doesn't even follow the headline. Apparently "Valley area records record growth" and "She's 3rd brightest but hard gal to see" (whatever the fuck that means) beat out the story of someone being ripped off. The "3rd Brightest" story brings up images of an unmade idiot savant movie that features a woman with Aspergers turning invisible. But no, Traveler's makes sure that you focus on your shit being stolen.
Then the music starts: the OCD/paranoid anthem for 2011. "I just want to be OK, be OK, be OK. I just want to be OK OK O K OK OOOOOOOOOOO OKKK O K OK OK OK OKOKOKOK!" I wonder if Ingrid Michaelson, the singer/songwriter, was told she had terminal cancer the day before and she wrote this song in a desperate bargain with God. "God, if I can only just be 'OK' I'll surrender my soul to you. I'll suck yo dick!" The short chords and repetition add a sense of playful suspense.
What could have this dog all worked up? What can possibly be in his small doghouse that sends him into a shit spiral? Does this dog have a title deed or Superbowl ring that needs protection? No, its a couple of chew toys and a bone. Strategically a tiny car and boat, implying that Traveler's covers your tiny, plastic cars and boats. This brings me to my major issue: too long have companies compared their customers to dogs. Its a clever metaphor, don't get me wrong, dogs spend little time thinking and eat every piece of shit that looks edible, much like the average consumer. However, if Traveler's wants to attract a clientele that consists of people who smartly save and invest their hard earned money, then I think that they should stop appealing to the canine demographic.
The one saving grace of this ad: its anti-Sovereign Citizen stance. Don't know what that is? Read the wiki and then watch this 60 Minutes. These charming residents of the American South and Alaska (the "Alabama of the North") feel that they have the right to defend their belongings with their own, god-given brute force with the assistance of automatic weapons. And that is just what our little dog friend does, he posts up on his domicile's entrance and steadfastly protects what be his. Like a sovereign. Days passed, and he realized what so few of his Kingly brethren had realized: that protecting your shit all of the time is boring. You can't go for walks, you can't get out of the rain, and you definitely can't fuck the neighbor's poodle in their front yard. Life is tough. So Traveler's offers you the peace of mind that prevents God Complex, all while taking your money.
Thank You For Reading,
Michael Kaye
Duralast, Emphasis on Last
"Nothing is worse than a dead battery"? Nothing? Really?
Scene 1: A frustrated mother tries to start her mini van to take her needy, bitch daughter to ballet practice. Of course, she'll give up the dream of becoming a ballerina when she realizes that professional dace isn't viable after watching Black Swan. Of course, her husband probably told her time and time again that she needed to change that battery in that death trap of transportation, but she knew she could really get under his skin if she just ignored him. Man, that attempt at pre-divorce torture really blew up in her face. The look on the daughter's face gives us another perspective on this poor woman's life: "Mommy isn't fun when she's angry. She drinks that brown, smelly stuff and starts crying."
Scene 2: Isn't that the douche from Waiting...? If it isn't, then he could be the stunt double/stand in. The agitation in his eyes, grinding teeth, and shaking rage all imply that this guy wants his car to start so he can go rape somebody. "How can I rape that girl I met on Craigslist if I can't start my car? WHY IS THE WORLD AGAINST ME?" Thank goodness this rat bastard's car won't start, but who will cut his brakes so he plows into a brick wall?
Scene 3: A stylistic approach, we first see this poor woman from afar, distant from any source of life. She sits alone in her car as she does the world. An outlier, a rogue, a "table for one." Her isolation and distance have come to a head when her moderately priced sedan won't start after a long day at the children's library, and she begins to weep. I know I have really been frustrated when something went wrong with my car (a 1997 Land Cruiser, her name is Mobee), but it has never driven me to tears. Its a car, it can't feel sympathy. The engine will not turn and be your friend when you start to cry, though my Disney programmed mind wishes it would. The fact that they have this woman start to well up only reveals AutoZone's desperate attempt to reach out to the fairer sex by appealing to their emotions, making the human emotion most trivial.
Scene 4: Oh, man! This guy has JUST HAD ENOUGH! "Great," he says, the smirk of self hatred smeared across his face. "Great," as he remembers how his career as a rock keyboardist left him just as quickly as his boyish good looks did in his late 20's. "Great," just plumb fed up with the card life has dealt him, and the cherry on top is the rotting battery under his hood. One day, you'll be walking through a cemetery and you'll see a tombstone that reads "Jim Jameson, 1971-2011, 'Great'" and you'll think that that guy had a "great" 40 years, but you'll be wrong.
Scene 5: Short and sweet: a guy on a hot date looks stupid because he forgets to check his battery, but if you look closely you'll see: this girl, though (at best) a 6, is way out of this Tito Puente Look-A-Like's league. In reality, she works for this guy... as a ho. Fatty Rodriguez simply pimps out this cute girl he found on the street to upscale clients in downscale motels. Unfortunately, this business partnership will not make their power lunch with CEO John Doe this fine evening, unless they catch a bus. Then again, how can that guy sound dominant in front of a disrespectful John when he shouts, "Dammit, Trixy, go wait on the bench down the street!"
Scene 6: BY FAR MY FAVORITE!!! The desperation, the fear, the suspense. This guy has a pound of heroin in the glove box, a chopped up dead body in the trunk, and his bitch got the wise idea to call the 5-0 on his ass (He best be repectin' they marriage, else a bitch has to call the pigs). With Johnny Law in rout, Herschel (that's what I've named him) needs to hightail it to Ziggy's if he doesn't want to spend the next life-sentence-without-parole in a cell. "Ziggy knows what to do. Ziggy can fix this." But, OH!, what tragedy befalls the lives of the ghetto: the battery "be dead." Not to mention, its hotter than fuck, and the windows don't work. Its like a scene out of a lost Tarantino film.
Scene 7: Piece of advise: Do not go to the grocery store at 1 in the morning. That's harvesting time for plenty of human traffickers, and you look like one ripe prospect. Second off, and this goes for all of you, PUT THE FUCKING SHOPPING CART BACK! Even if its in one of the depositories 20 blocks away from the main holding pen, it keeps those fucking mechanical embodiments of tourettes in check so they (A) don't block parking spots and (B) don't ding my car door as I make a quick vodka run. Your car not starting = karma. I love that they cut to that wide, high shot. That cliche "passionate appeal to a Higher Power" angle that makes a person looks small and hopeless. Which she is, because she's a woman.
Scene 8: Oh, man. Those other people are pussies. They didn't have a thick layer of snow covering their cars, and this guy can easily start his car. He must be a man, white, and a Christian. A+ from AUTOZONE!
Scene 9: This is Herschel 15 years earlier. He's confident, attractive, and dating this nice girl he met at a party. He had some trouble in high school, but he managed to work his way through college and now he owns his own Domino's (Though that rat bastard J. Patrick Doyle has him by the balls, he makes good money). He plays pick-up basketball, but never on the weekends, those are the "key times" at the "Shop" (his pet name for his hard work). To his surprise, he would need to revert to a "little side business" to supplement his money clip when he learns that that girl has a baby, and he the daddy (Bitch said she had some die-fram o' some shi). When push came to shove, Herschel could sling heroin unlike anyone in the streets. He moved his products, pizzas and brown sugar (The title to this movie), throughout the hood and built a reputation as being a stern employer. Domino's standards were matched by the side business: if your smack doesn't arrived in 30 minutes or less, then your smack is free. Here, AutoZone brings us to a simple time, a better time. Its almost like they've captured the "happy boughs" Keats once wrote of in his odes.
Scene 10: Professor of English at Providence Community College. BA and MA from the University of Conneticut (Go, Huskies!). Ph.D. in Taggin' Sweet Pussay. Submitted several papers to Humanities Quarterly, The Early Colonial Lit. Review, and "Dear Penthouse,". Moderated conferences at The Washington Irving Summit and Boston Erotica Festival. Received grants from The Guggenheim Foundation, Scribner's, and Bang Bros. Productions.
Scene 11: AW, FUCK! That wasn't a white, male, Christian at all! She was a powerful, black woman, probably Muslim. Its a miracle that she would have remembered to check her battery so often. I am TAKEN ABACK! Leave it to AutoZone to shake my ethical foundations... or its their appeal to minorities. Its likely they want to reassure black people that they can "pass" in modern white society (Please read Nella Larsen). Bastards.
Wrap Up: "Proven tough"? If they are imposing that they sell a non-inferior product, cool. If they try to say that this occurrence could happen to "everyone," fine. But this ad goes back to the point... You know what? I'm super baked right now. Like, really high. And I have been while writing this entire article, so disregard any of this post's seriousness. Jeepers creepers, I am high! (#apologia)
Thank You For Reading,
Michael Kaye
Scene 1: A frustrated mother tries to start her mini van to take her needy, bitch daughter to ballet practice. Of course, she'll give up the dream of becoming a ballerina when she realizes that professional dace isn't viable after watching Black Swan. Of course, her husband probably told her time and time again that she needed to change that battery in that death trap of transportation, but she knew she could really get under his skin if she just ignored him. Man, that attempt at pre-divorce torture really blew up in her face. The look on the daughter's face gives us another perspective on this poor woman's life: "Mommy isn't fun when she's angry. She drinks that brown, smelly stuff and starts crying."
Scene 2: Isn't that the douche from Waiting...? If it isn't, then he could be the stunt double/stand in. The agitation in his eyes, grinding teeth, and shaking rage all imply that this guy wants his car to start so he can go rape somebody. "How can I rape that girl I met on Craigslist if I can't start my car? WHY IS THE WORLD AGAINST ME?" Thank goodness this rat bastard's car won't start, but who will cut his brakes so he plows into a brick wall?
Scene 3: A stylistic approach, we first see this poor woman from afar, distant from any source of life. She sits alone in her car as she does the world. An outlier, a rogue, a "table for one." Her isolation and distance have come to a head when her moderately priced sedan won't start after a long day at the children's library, and she begins to weep. I know I have really been frustrated when something went wrong with my car (a 1997 Land Cruiser, her name is Mobee), but it has never driven me to tears. Its a car, it can't feel sympathy. The engine will not turn and be your friend when you start to cry, though my Disney programmed mind wishes it would. The fact that they have this woman start to well up only reveals AutoZone's desperate attempt to reach out to the fairer sex by appealing to their emotions, making the human emotion most trivial.
Scene 4: Oh, man! This guy has JUST HAD ENOUGH! "Great," he says, the smirk of self hatred smeared across his face. "Great," as he remembers how his career as a rock keyboardist left him just as quickly as his boyish good looks did in his late 20's. "Great," just plumb fed up with the card life has dealt him, and the cherry on top is the rotting battery under his hood. One day, you'll be walking through a cemetery and you'll see a tombstone that reads "Jim Jameson, 1971-2011, 'Great'" and you'll think that that guy had a "great" 40 years, but you'll be wrong.
Scene 5: Short and sweet: a guy on a hot date looks stupid because he forgets to check his battery, but if you look closely you'll see: this girl, though (at best) a 6, is way out of this Tito Puente Look-A-Like's league. In reality, she works for this guy... as a ho. Fatty Rodriguez simply pimps out this cute girl he found on the street to upscale clients in downscale motels. Unfortunately, this business partnership will not make their power lunch with CEO John Doe this fine evening, unless they catch a bus. Then again, how can that guy sound dominant in front of a disrespectful John when he shouts, "Dammit, Trixy, go wait on the bench down the street!"
Scene 6: BY FAR MY FAVORITE!!! The desperation, the fear, the suspense. This guy has a pound of heroin in the glove box, a chopped up dead body in the trunk, and his bitch got the wise idea to call the 5-0 on his ass (He best be repectin' they marriage, else a bitch has to call the pigs). With Johnny Law in rout, Herschel (that's what I've named him) needs to hightail it to Ziggy's if he doesn't want to spend the next life-sentence-without-parole in a cell. "Ziggy knows what to do. Ziggy can fix this." But, OH!, what tragedy befalls the lives of the ghetto: the battery "be dead." Not to mention, its hotter than fuck, and the windows don't work. Its like a scene out of a lost Tarantino film.
Scene 7: Piece of advise: Do not go to the grocery store at 1 in the morning. That's harvesting time for plenty of human traffickers, and you look like one ripe prospect. Second off, and this goes for all of you, PUT THE FUCKING SHOPPING CART BACK! Even if its in one of the depositories 20 blocks away from the main holding pen, it keeps those fucking mechanical embodiments of tourettes in check so they (A) don't block parking spots and (B) don't ding my car door as I make a quick vodka run. Your car not starting = karma. I love that they cut to that wide, high shot. That cliche "passionate appeal to a Higher Power" angle that makes a person looks small and hopeless. Which she is, because she's a woman.
Scene 8: Oh, man. Those other people are pussies. They didn't have a thick layer of snow covering their cars, and this guy can easily start his car. He must be a man, white, and a Christian. A+ from AUTOZONE!
Scene 9: This is Herschel 15 years earlier. He's confident, attractive, and dating this nice girl he met at a party. He had some trouble in high school, but he managed to work his way through college and now he owns his own Domino's (Though that rat bastard J. Patrick Doyle has him by the balls, he makes good money). He plays pick-up basketball, but never on the weekends, those are the "key times" at the "Shop" (his pet name for his hard work). To his surprise, he would need to revert to a "little side business" to supplement his money clip when he learns that that girl has a baby, and he the daddy (Bitch said she had some die-fram o' some shi). When push came to shove, Herschel could sling heroin unlike anyone in the streets. He moved his products, pizzas and brown sugar (The title to this movie), throughout the hood and built a reputation as being a stern employer. Domino's standards were matched by the side business: if your smack doesn't arrived in 30 minutes or less, then your smack is free. Here, AutoZone brings us to a simple time, a better time. Its almost like they've captured the "happy boughs" Keats once wrote of in his odes.
Scene 10: Professor of English at Providence Community College. BA and MA from the University of Conneticut (Go, Huskies!). Ph.D. in Taggin' Sweet Pussay. Submitted several papers to Humanities Quarterly, The Early Colonial Lit. Review, and "Dear Penthouse,". Moderated conferences at The Washington Irving Summit and Boston Erotica Festival. Received grants from The Guggenheim Foundation, Scribner's, and Bang Bros. Productions.
Scene 11: AW, FUCK! That wasn't a white, male, Christian at all! She was a powerful, black woman, probably Muslim. Its a miracle that she would have remembered to check her battery so often. I am TAKEN ABACK! Leave it to AutoZone to shake my ethical foundations... or its their appeal to minorities. Its likely they want to reassure black people that they can "pass" in modern white society (Please read Nella Larsen). Bastards.
Wrap Up: "Proven tough"? If they are imposing that they sell a non-inferior product, cool. If they try to say that this occurrence could happen to "everyone," fine. But this ad goes back to the point... You know what? I'm super baked right now. Like, really high. And I have been while writing this entire article, so disregard any of this post's seriousness. Jeepers creepers, I am high! (#apologia)
Thank You For Reading,
Michael Kaye
Thursday, June 23, 2011
Dunkin'!
Apparently, whenever you walk into a McDonalds now, you need to speak in iambic pentameter.
"Its like the ping to the pong, like the ding to the dong." -Chicken Nugget Fucker. Good Lord! How many people legitimately talk about McDonalds like this? So eloquent, like his college directory accidentally sent him to the campus McDonalds instead of Humanities Hall 341. Its almost like he wants to one day take a chisel inside of their bathroom, go into one of the stalls, and then carve a hole in the tile so he can fuck it. HE WANTS TO FUCK THE ESTABLISHMENT OF MCDONALDS! and not even in the pejorative sense. His soft, fleshy dick tearing against his lover's stony vagina, pulsating against the hum of the broken milkshake machine, until climax... when one of the workers barges into place, totally ruining the vibe. No, he wants to craft poetry about how misshapen chicken fragments dunked into saccharin sweet paste makes his nether regions tingle and his nipples harden. I imagine that of the friends in this commercial, our star (I'll name him Regis) is the one who tries to involve his friends in his own fucked-up bullshit. For example, one time Becky forgot to call Regis about this totally sweet kick-back where they were going to listen to that one Sufjan Stevens song that wasn't released, and all Regis could do was sit in the commissary with a sullen look on his face so that people would walk up and stupidly ask, "Aw, what's wrong?" "What's wrong? I'll tell yah what's wrong: My life consists of two things: McDonald's chicken products and the velvety voice of the Suf. And since SOMEBODY FORGOT TO CALL ME," he shrieks at his turned off phone, "I don't get to partake of either." That's the Regis we all know and hate.
You can tell that his friends' relationship with him is very tired and on the verge of turning sour. Regis simply has to state a single fact about chicken McNuggets (That they are "great," which is not a fact) and the girl to his left (our right) rolls his eyes and chants the sacred spell of comedic relief: "Here we go." If only, OH! IF ONLY! they had added the proverbial "again," that would be the saving grace of this ad (McDonalds fact). Then there is Hipster Commercial Douche #1 to his immediate right, this smarmy looking mother fucker combines the rough and tumble elements of stubble with the intelligent softness of a plaid, long sleeve shirt. I doubt he has showered in the last 72 hours. In fact, I bet that he found the money to buy himself some "chikn nugs" this morning while making the weekly visit to the bathroom to make sure he still looks like an ass. Everything was checking through (Dirty plaid shirt, check. False sense of entitlement, check.) when he peered down toward his crusty toilet brush to see some fool had left a five dollar bill in the bristles. After cleaning the currency off, he called his black, bespectacled friend (Hipster Douche #2) who then called his black friend ("Here we go" Girl) who then called her semi-hispanic looking friend (Who may as well as been a plant in this commercial, she has no lines), who asked if she could bring this new guy she met in the Russian Lit section of the library. They both were looking for a copy of Marx's Manifesto, even though he is German. "He's pretty cool. His name is Regis." "No," said Herewego Girl, "for the love of God, no! Get away from him as far as you ca..." but it was too late.
Anyways, the crux of this campaign to bring back McNuggets are the new sauces McDonalds has to offer. "Dipping food into something to help you forget that your eating it" I believe is the new slogan. Why don't we take a step back.
Jamie Oliver Sucks at Controversy
Ah, AMERICA! Did you see it? Did you see how the sausages were made? Did it make you cringe? Did it make you want to drop $10 for fifty (Fucking 50) chicken Mcnuggets? Those children sure didn't seem to mind, and what better judgement than that from the mouths' of babes? I do not give a shit about how they are made, every once in a while, after a large amount of THC enters my bloodstream, I don't mind shoveling a few of these little bastards into my mouth. I might say that Regis and I share that common bond. I might say that there's a little Regis in all of us, this desire to speak in such a way to make us seem smarter, but really enjoys the McNugget things in life. I might say that the chicken McNugget need not try to coat their little jewels of chicken in glazes that blind out taste buds. JUST BE YOURSELF, MCDONALDS! America's Fatty Factory.
Thank You For Reading,
Michael Kaye
"Its like the ping to the pong, like the ding to the dong." -Chicken Nugget Fucker. Good Lord! How many people legitimately talk about McDonalds like this? So eloquent, like his college directory accidentally sent him to the campus McDonalds instead of Humanities Hall 341. Its almost like he wants to one day take a chisel inside of their bathroom, go into one of the stalls, and then carve a hole in the tile so he can fuck it. HE WANTS TO FUCK THE ESTABLISHMENT OF MCDONALDS! and not even in the pejorative sense. His soft, fleshy dick tearing against his lover's stony vagina, pulsating against the hum of the broken milkshake machine, until climax... when one of the workers barges into place, totally ruining the vibe. No, he wants to craft poetry about how misshapen chicken fragments dunked into saccharin sweet paste makes his nether regions tingle and his nipples harden. I imagine that of the friends in this commercial, our star (I'll name him Regis) is the one who tries to involve his friends in his own fucked-up bullshit. For example, one time Becky forgot to call Regis about this totally sweet kick-back where they were going to listen to that one Sufjan Stevens song that wasn't released, and all Regis could do was sit in the commissary with a sullen look on his face so that people would walk up and stupidly ask, "Aw, what's wrong?" "What's wrong? I'll tell yah what's wrong: My life consists of two things: McDonald's chicken products and the velvety voice of the Suf. And since SOMEBODY FORGOT TO CALL ME," he shrieks at his turned off phone, "I don't get to partake of either." That's the Regis we all know and hate.
You can tell that his friends' relationship with him is very tired and on the verge of turning sour. Regis simply has to state a single fact about chicken McNuggets (That they are "great," which is not a fact) and the girl to his left (our right) rolls his eyes and chants the sacred spell of comedic relief: "Here we go." If only, OH! IF ONLY! they had added the proverbial "again," that would be the saving grace of this ad (McDonalds fact). Then there is Hipster Commercial Douche #1 to his immediate right, this smarmy looking mother fucker combines the rough and tumble elements of stubble with the intelligent softness of a plaid, long sleeve shirt. I doubt he has showered in the last 72 hours. In fact, I bet that he found the money to buy himself some "chikn nugs" this morning while making the weekly visit to the bathroom to make sure he still looks like an ass. Everything was checking through (Dirty plaid shirt, check. False sense of entitlement, check.) when he peered down toward his crusty toilet brush to see some fool had left a five dollar bill in the bristles. After cleaning the currency off, he called his black, bespectacled friend (Hipster Douche #2) who then called his black friend ("Here we go" Girl) who then called her semi-hispanic looking friend (Who may as well as been a plant in this commercial, she has no lines), who asked if she could bring this new guy she met in the Russian Lit section of the library. They both were looking for a copy of Marx's Manifesto, even though he is German. "He's pretty cool. His name is Regis." "No," said Herewego Girl, "for the love of God, no! Get away from him as far as you ca..." but it was too late.
Anyways, the crux of this campaign to bring back McNuggets are the new sauces McDonalds has to offer. "Dipping food into something to help you forget that your eating it" I believe is the new slogan. Why don't we take a step back.
Jamie Oliver Sucks at Controversy
Ah, AMERICA! Did you see it? Did you see how the sausages were made? Did it make you cringe? Did it make you want to drop $10 for fifty (Fucking 50) chicken Mcnuggets? Those children sure didn't seem to mind, and what better judgement than that from the mouths' of babes? I do not give a shit about how they are made, every once in a while, after a large amount of THC enters my bloodstream, I don't mind shoveling a few of these little bastards into my mouth. I might say that Regis and I share that common bond. I might say that there's a little Regis in all of us, this desire to speak in such a way to make us seem smarter, but really enjoys the McNugget things in life. I might say that the chicken McNugget need not try to coat their little jewels of chicken in glazes that blind out taste buds. JUST BE YOURSELF, MCDONALDS! America's Fatty Factory.
Thank You For Reading,
Michael Kaye
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