Donnie Deutsch Mark!

(NOTE: Apparently Donnie Douche now has a regular column in shitty Gotham Magazine called—wait for the ad-guy cleverness—Deutsch Mark [Brilliant! Here’s a sack of Euros.]. Therefore, I will now have a regular post counting how many words in his piece are about him, as opposed to his subject.)

In the March issue of Gotham, Douche interviews Billy Joel. The first 2 words of the article? “For me…” Total Words from Joel: 82. Total Words Douche talks directly about himself: 194. Total Words plugging his Talk Show: 50. Times he writes “I” or “me”: 18. Times he calls Joel a "Brand": 1. Total Words in article: 435. Times I said "Douche" while reading the article: 1,038.

The Fake Testimonial. Now with more Fake.

As I’ve said, the Fake Testimonial is the lowest form of advertising. “Chuck” Schwab has polished the turd to a super shiny sheen by cartoonizing the “customers.” Yes, this campaign has been around since October, but the latest spot featuring the woman on the ski lift—shown ad nauseam during the Olympics—just set me off. Chuck's message is exactly the same as TD Waterhouse and many other brokerage firms: We let You take control of your investments! It’s just delivered by fake-cartoon fake non-customer paid actors mouthing fake words written by a fake writer, aka an ad copywriter. You can watch the fakery here.

IT'S MASHUPS FRIDAY!!!!

(I don't remember where I found these. So sue me.)


Andre Graf.........................................Salma Norton.


Zeta Douglas.....................................Lukas Portman.

(Update: OK here's where I found them. There's more. The Britney Timberlake is pretty funny.)

The Fusion: A Review.

This must be what it felt like to be caressed by Aphrodite. God must now include the Fusion in your orientation kit when you ascend to heaven. After shaving this morning, I grabbed 3 random downtown Supermodels and kissed them. All three are now under my desk taking turns gently and lovingly servicing me. The five-blade Fusion—well worth the $109.99 price tag.

The Bowlmor Girls. Now With Zero Bowling.

The Girls, judging by the latest ad (right), have given up on the warped alleys (Blondie’s secretions, left, couldn’t have helped) at “hip” Bowlmor Lanes and slipped into the men’s room to await a Stroke or an Interpol to come in and take a pee-pee. I’ve pissed a few times in that men’s room and while it’s not CBGB disgusting, I definitely would not sit on the floor. Being a transplanted white-trash hillbilly, I’ve never gotten the NYC Bowling For Irony phenomenon. But then Bowlmor, unlike Port Authority's superior Leisure Time Lanes, hasn’t been about actual bowling for about 10 years. The Girls are a mere block from the L, Billyburgers. Y'all, of course, already knew that.
(A very local New York City post. Apologies to my national, international, intergalactic readers.)

The drunken conversation is waiting.

Grand Marnier is now sponsoring conversation — one would assume while one is drinking some GM after dinner…which more than probably will have been preceded by drinking during dinner…and quite possibly drinking before dinner. Let’s listen in:
MAN: "Do you think people in Red states wear red more than people in Blue states?"
WOMAN: "What the hell are you talking about?"
MAN: "No, listen. How do you think Republican states became Red states, maybe because they both begin with an 'R'? Cause, (long pause) you know, Elephants and Donkeys are both kinda gray, so they couldn't make all the states gray, and..." (nods off)
(ad appeared in the Atlantic monthly)

Thanks, but I think I'll take the subway.

Double-Decker buses are fashionable. Target is fashionable. And, British fashion designer Luella Bartley is fashionable. So we're all synced up here. But, well,
Britain + Double-Decker Bus + Target = This.
At least, that was my first thought.
(click photo, taken on Bond St.)

A challenge for sure: how to ever-so-gently address the super-sensitive topic of embarrassing, ego-crushing erectile dysfunction within an online banner ad. This would be my approach:

HEY PAL, DOES YOUR DICK SUCK?


(I guarantee you it would get more click-throughs than the above thing. Look at the look on the woman’s face (click image)—she looks like she’s watching a sparrow eating birdseed on the windowsill.).

Close Your Eyes.

First it was Tit Cleavage. Then, Clit Cleavage. Now True, the "safer online dating service," unromantically and unceremoniously takes you directly to The Money Shot. No teddy bears. No calla lilies. No fingering. Well, at least the guy appears to be quite virile. Happy Valentine's Day, ladies.

The Car as Cock.

Now, I’m all for hot chicks with nice tits in fuck-me pumps. But, speaking, if I may, for our society as we enter the middle of the second month of 2006—uhhhhh, haven’t we progressed to the point in history where our car ads should drop the sexist 1950s shtick?
“That’s it sweetheart, smile. Good. Now stroke the hood with your right hand. NO! Slower. Perfect.”
(addendum: Ad headlines should basically never end with a stupid ellipsis. It always reads, at least for me, “blahblahblahblah…[you dick].")

Stupid Post

I'm busy writing stupid things for money today, so here's something stupid I found at stupid.com.
Yep, it's a stupid tattoo sleeve.

This campaign is Smellin’.

—My hatred of it, I’m having a hard time Quellin’.
—Whoever thought of it, doesn’t have much going on in his/her Melon.
—I'm not buyin' what they're Sellin'.

Tommy, I think about sex. A LOT.

• I think journalists who use their middle initial in their byline are self-important Dweebs.
• I think, Tommy, I shouldn’t have to "upgrade" and pay 50 GODDAMN FUCKING BUCKS to tell you what I think (your paper gets well north of $100,000 per page per day for advertising). That’s what free letters to the editor and free email are for, right?
• I think this headline is pure New York Times Arrogance. Thanks for italicizing the “you” you fourth estate Fucks. It really reads, …"what you think…you dumbass.”
• Oh, and Friedmeister? I think you should definitely lose the Flanders-esque soup strainer.

My "Live Blog" of the Super Bowl Ads

6:30—7:00 Don't remember.
7:00—8:30 Watched three less-than-stellar Simpsons reruns.
8:30—9:00 Pounded on my drum set. Upstairs neighbor pounded on floor.
9:00—10:00 Stared at a Sopranos episode I'd already seen twice.
10:01—? Knitted.

A Tank? How bout a Pop Gun?

Just a brief note to say that this Battle of the Ad Blogs ("...we can't promise any groupies." — HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA) is even more pathetic than, you know, actual advertising awards. Because while writing advertising is a joke, writing even semi-serious critiques about advertising is completely arbitrary and pointless. Right, Mr. Frustrated Wannabe Copywriter Mark Dolliver of Adweek et al? Oh, and good luck to all you trailblazers.

Readers: I am off on a three-day weekend, the daylight hours of which will be spent trying to catch as many Washington Square Park squirrels as I can with my trusty stick-rope-peanut thingie. My advice: do NOT buy "chicken" dishes from any East Village Chinese restaurants for at least, oh, a month.
Back Monday.
(UPDATE: make that "duck" dishes. They just pay me for the critters, I don't ask.)

eau de ASS

OK. WHO was the first dickhead to green-light these "masculine" versions of what should have FOREVER remained feminine body sprays? This isn’t metrosexuality. This is a fucking stupid idiotic retarded product for fucking stupid idiotic retarded men. Even if your body secretions happen to smell like beer farts or pond scum: Beer Farts + Old Spice Body Spray = Merchant Ship With a Hold Full of Shit & Yeast; or, Pond Scum + Old Spice Body Spray = Dead Rotting Sailor Who Fucked a Five Dollar Whore. Which brings me to this whole Body Spray = You’ll Get Laid benefit—YES! It works. I encourage ALL you single NYC hetero men to buy these products and spray them liberally all over your mooky bodies within all your cracks and crevices because I have scientific Beta-study double-blind information that proves you’ll have women tugging gently on your spicy-smelling dicks damn near immediately—or your money back.