The "am" Stands for About a Million.

Both of these self-promo ads appeared in yesterday's (January 30th) edition of free daily rag amNew York. The one on the left, on page 24. The one on the right, page 38. Such an exact figure, that first one. Yet, it's contradicted 14 pages later. Perhaps, the ad on the right was placed by main competitor Metro New York? Or perhaps, amNew York is playing loose with advertisers' money.
(UPDATE: amNew York cops to the fuckup in the comments.)

A 36.13 Billion Dollar Smile.

"Uh, huh-huh. Uh, huh-huh-huh. What was that? Alternative energy sources?
Uh huh-huh-huh-huh...yeah, we'll get right on that. Uh huh-huh."

THE END IS NIGH

Leaving the Puck Building Friday at 6ish, I spot THIS possible Sign of the Apocalypse. How devious of BeelzeTrump & the CorcoDevil to hold their little "Event" in the impish Puck at the same time as the highly publicized Outsider Art Fair. 'Nah copyranter,' I think, 'you're overreacting. It's probably just an innocent little dinner party.'

Cut to four hours later: I'm back in the neighborhood and I glance up at the Puck's 7th floor Skylight Ballroom, the location of the "Event."


HOLY. BABY. JESUS. (click image, if you dare.)
This Monday morning, I walked through the empty ballroom. I sniffed the air for incense. Nothing. Not one drop of baby's blood on the wooden floor, either. I ask two building maintenance guys about Friday night. They know nothing.
Then I remember this is the year of 06/06/06.
(To my non-NYC readers, sorry. But, this is some BIG EVIL, believe me.)

It's Your Regular Friday Shriners Update.

I was doing a Google image search for something work-related that wasn't even remotely related to The Shriners but, well, you know how Google goes sometimes, and...
(first, let me say ahead of time, I'm sorry if you're somehow emotionally-connected to these fellas)
...jesus, this whole "dead-seriously driving our little cars" scenario is one of the absolutely stupidest ongoing moments in the history of our Planet.

Evening Wood

AIDS is so fucking cool, ain't it? It’s the hippest, sexiest disease. So fashionable. That special shiny silver tape placed perfectly over exquisitely photographed Elijah Wood’s mouth shimmers doesn’t it? Yeah baby. That’s fucking hot. And how bout those special shiny Dog Tags us common folk can buy to show we’re down with Hollywood as to just how fucking cool AIDS is—yeah, a global Army of Coooooool. Gotta get me a pair of stylish Aldos to match my Tags, too. Yeah. Fucking. Cool.
(billboard @ Houston & Lafayette)

Just Add Vinegar

I'm busy today, working on dreadfully shitty TV ideas for an absolutely asinine client. Anyway, just to post something advertising-related, here's a pic of a proper Douche Bag.

(Update: Ditto for today, Wednesday. Back tomorrow with a couple of new posts.)

Taglines are DUMB, #1.

Here, we have the new Bud Select gem, Expect Everything (click image. sorry, a little dark.). Expect everything? My friends (and enemies), this is a line that went through focus groups and across the desks of several marketing MBA "whizzes." So, let's say...:
1. ...I twist open a Bud Select at a bar and I instantly turn into a Dodo Bird? Should've expected it.
2. ...I pick up a six-pack at the liquor store. At the exact moment of transaction, the universe folds in on itself forming a bouillon cube? Should've expected it.
3. ...At a party, I grab a bottle of Bud Select out of the fridge and I involuntarily fart loudly but even worse the fart continues like a smoke alarm that can't be disconnected though on the somewhat plus side it smells like furniture polish? Again, I should've expected it.

Google Image Search: copyranter

It's Sunday. I'm trying to write. When trying to write, I will do anything to distract myself from writing. A pebble falls on my fire escape? I must fully investigate this highly unusual City phenomenon. Zippy meows? I "talk" to her for 45 minutes.

This day, I image-searched "copyranter" on Google.

This was the 1 result returned (Go ahead, try it. Filter has to be off.).

Sweating, I image-searched copyranter on Yahoo!.

Zero results.

Phew.

SEX MACHINE FRIDAY!!!

For those who didn't catch the Sex Machine exhibit at the Manhattan Museum of Sex, here's some DildoDuper love. We tried all three. Top Left—The Husky (a little unstable). Top Right—Special Delivery (Flag's up—male in your box. teehee.). Bottom—The "Nail" Gun (for those hard to reach areas). Click the images for a better look.

The only celebrity endorsement I've ever liked.

Waterston + Waterhouse=everybody remembers the advertiser. Umm, DUH?!? OK 5th graders—who can think of some more famous people and products that would go together?
BILLY: George Bush + Bush's Baked Beans? (Billy farts)
(class laughs)
SALLY: Paris Hilton + Hilton Hotels?
RUSSELL: Hilary Duff + Duff Beer?
JIMMY: Vin Diesel + Diesel?
(class murmurs approval)
EVAN: Tori Spelling + Education?
(class laughs)
MOLLY: Jake Gyllenhaal + U-haul?
COPYRANTER: Lucy Lawless + a local Bail Bonds Agency?
GEORGINA (reads 8th grade level): Dennis Miller + Summer's Eve...

(thank you, most recent issue of OK!)

ProofING.

Why yes. I am married to "me" business. And looky looky here: My business is cheating on me with my proofreader. In fact, it’s letting the proofreader fuck it right in the fucking ass. I’ve pleaded and pleaded with it to JUST ONCE, let me slide it in the tight tunnel. But NO. It told me it "don't like no anal sex." Yet, here I catch it getting hammered by that fucking puny English Lit major right on my fucking desk. And they fucking broke my New York City snow globe in the process. Damn skippy I want a divorce.
(note: ING handles my 401k. Peachy.)

Do You Girls Suck Dick With That Creativity?

I’ve finally made it to the bottom of my huge stack of holiday promotion mail. Tis the season when photographers, printers, retouchers, media reps, etc. send ad agencies their best attempts at being creative. This year (well, every year), every single piece sucked the ass of an Ass Beast. Hard. This particular piece of crap was easily the worst. Click on it and take a close look. And remember—this is from people who do retouching FOR MONEY.

New Jersey. Streams of Whiskey and Lakes of Stew.

New Jersey has itself a new slogan: Come See For Yourself. Ducky. But the problem isn’t a slogan. The problem is the State name: New JERSEY. the word “Jersey” has become irrevocably synonymous with crappy, smelly, SUBPAR. Just say it: JURZEE. Yuk. It is a bad bad word.
Which is why Governor Richard Codey should just unilaterally change the State’s name to one of the following:
—New J
—New Blood (how cool would that be?)
—New Love
—New Wave
—New Improved
—SpringState
—Soprano
—Angelina Jolie
—Max Power (what Homer once changed his name to)

MY MOSTEST WORSTEST HEADLINE OF 2005.

Why stop there? This boffo borrowed-interest concept has legs like a caterpillar, baby.

• You Balance Your Head on Your Neck. What About Your Portfolio?

• You Balance Your Senses of Dread and Optimism. What About Your Portfolio?

• You Balance the Ashtray on Your Lover's Smooth Taut Ass While Toking and Plowing Her/His Bunghole and Slapping His/Her Sweet Cheeks. What About Your Portfolio?

I uh like something...

This is so hard for me especially on a Monday morning. But...oh gosh darn, I'll just say it. The casting of this precious girl as an over-caffeinated cheerleader by T-Mobile was just fucking brilliant. The campaign itself is a contrived string of Zeta Jones stool. But like...whatever.

Worst. Anthropomorphism. EVER.

This Courvoisier NYC subway campaign (via worldwide advertising clusterfuck Publicis) takes anthropomorphism down to an F train level.
What did you say to me, bottle of cognac that looks like pussy? No, you're not beautiful. You're fucking fat and your head is all kinds of messed up. You fucking French think you're better than everyone else. Parlez-vous...shut the fuck up? Give me your wallet and your fucking iPod before I smash you into a thousand fucking pieces you foul-smelling Fuck.

Great (cough) idea.

Swiss herbal cough drop maker Ricola (They don’t work any better than a Jolly Rancher, believe me. I worked on a Ricola pitch as a freelancer. Taste good though.) is running a promotion this Winter wherein a person who gives the “Mystery Cougher”—an actor fake coughing—a Ricola cough drop may win a million bucks. The supposed Cougher will supposedly be in NYC this Friday.
Yeah, Riiiiight.
Let’s take a look-see at this moment in Promotion Retardation from a local POV. I’ll use Marketing Director-friendly (Most of them are illiterate, believe me. I write their business letters.) Bullet Points:
• Have you Dillweeds ever riddin’ a subway? A person could blow through a case during one 20 minute trip without moving his/her feet. More importantly, the cough drop giver-outer would also probably be socked/stabbed/spit on 4-5 times. That’s a conservative estimate.
• Because... city people don’t like to be looked at, let alone talked to, LET ALONE offered a FUCKING cough drop from a FUCKING stranger that could be poison in a Ricola wrapper for all we know.
• Could you have AT THE LEAST included a disclaimer eliminating all the poor sick cold homeless folk as the potential mystery hacker?
• This Promotion is of course Bullshit, people. There is NO mystery cougher. Oh, the million bucks will be “given away”—to some fucking patsy in Buttfuck, Redstate.