I have given up on late night television. Sure, the programming sucks major smegma - there is only so much a person can tolerate of Jack, Janet, and Chrissy engaged in the 1970's version of comical misunderstanding, all at three o'clock in the morning - but that's not what I'm talking about.
I'm talking about those insipid adverts for a series of oh-so-classy videotapes called "Girls Gone Wild: Melons on Parade" (or whatever the subheading is). If you aren't familiar with these artistic gems, they are advertisements for videos displaying a bevy of alleged college girls vapidly baring their chests and shaking their whoppers at the camera.
These things make me long for the days when the only commercials worth complaining about featured an overly cheerful smiling mother instructing her overly cheerful smiling daughter about which feminine product to use when she's bleeding like a stuck pig and only the most technologically advanced collection of cotton and/or rayon fiber, rayon overwrap, cotton cord and biodegradable applicator available in three standardized industry-wide absorbencies will do... or the ones depicting a group of overly cheerful smiling women, sipping coffee and engaging in lively discussion on what to do when they get that "not so fresh feeling." ("Say! Marge! What do you do on those days when you're giving off a stench that would wilt the house plants and fell a buffalo at two hundred feet?")
Now, I don't consider myself a prude - yes, yes, I know what many of you are thinking... only a prude would ever make such a statement, and to that I say go fuck yourself with my entire collection of buttplugs until your sphincter muscle is about as useful as the elastic on a ten-year-old pair of underwear.
Where was I?
Oh yes. As I was saying, I don't consider myself a prude, but I take a measure of pride in the fact that when I see some schmuck in a stained undershirt and a week's worth of facial growth brandishing a video camera and telling me I have a nice rack, I feel no compulsion whatsoever to lift my shirt, waggle my ladyberries and bellow "Wooooooooooo!" at the top of my lungs, giggling as though I just did the cutest and most original thing ever. I guess my self esteem has not been pulverized to the point of making me THAT desperate for approval.
I know you guys (and yes, some of you women too) keenly appreciate a woman who is willing to display her knockers at the drop of a hat, but come on. Just how many volumes of Dirty Pillows on Videotape can you watch before a cantaloupe is nothing more than a piece of produce with a hard, rough rind and sweet, juicy, orange-colored flesh?
These hooter-hawking ads proliferate late night TV like cheating husbands at a Las Vegas business convention. Normally, when I see a product so heavily promoted, I am awed by the size of the advertising budget that must be maintained. But when your production costs are equivalent to the wholesale on a gross of pocket lint, I suppose you can afford to Go Wild on advertising costs.
What a legacy these boulder-baring "college girls" are leaving for any children that may have the misfortune of issuing forth from their college-educated wombs. When all the other children are on the playground stating that their mothers are teachers, architects, stay-at-home moms, doctors, factory workers, secretaries, by golly THESE children can boastfully proclaim, "Well MY mom exposes her bazungas AND hollers Woooooooo! - BOTH AT THE SAME TIME!" What child wouldn't be proud!
I suppose I should make it clear that I have never actually viewed any of these rocks-in-the-socks tapes, so perhaps I am being hasty in my judgment. Perhaps in addition to generic women joyously revealing their fun bags and howling variants of "Wooooo," there might also be an occasional glimpse of the ol' vertical taco, with the little man in the canoe standing at rapt attention and ready to rock someone's world. And perhaps these "films" are cinematic masterpieces, with direction to rival that of Alfonso Arau. Guys, feel free to chime in here and let me know if that is the case. I will cheerfully show you my love apples and deliver my most sincere apology with an enthusiastic "Woooooooooo!"
Gosh, how I miss all those innocuous ads for Depend Undergarments, Preparation H, Monostat, Kaopectate, and Clearasil, with nary a mam in sight (possible exception being the occasional mercury tips showing through a sweater sans undergarment).
Oh Tidy Bowl Man, where are you when we need you most?
I am thinking of creating my own set of videotapes ($9.95 each, plus shipping and handling, and sales tax where applicable, check or credit card only, sorry no C.O.D.s) and launching a mass advertising campaign for them. The first tape in the series is to be titled "Certified Public Accountants Gone Wild: Doggy Style!" Included will be a free t-shirt (100% cotton, machine wash cold, delicate cycle, only non-chlorine bleach when needed, tumble dry low, warm iron if necessary) picturing a frisky accountant wearing his conservative necktie like a headband, Coke-bottle eyeglasses askew, as he jauntily rips open his plain white short-sleeved business shirt, buttons and pocket protector a-flying, suit jacket swinging from the ceiling fan, all captured with the smarmy tag line: CPA's Do It By The Numbers!
I have already contacted Snoop Dogg's agent with my request for him to do the camera work. The Snoopman has yet to return my call.
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