Models lighter than Cotton.

Women over size 2, if reading fashion mags makes you want to puke, it's best you avoid daily trade rag WWD. Because there, all pretenses of reality are violently purged, as evidenced by this ad for Cotton, Inc. Bony-ass models apparently not being bony-ass enough, the Cotton folk are using specially designed size -¼ dolls—whose thighs are actually thinner than their calves—to promote their fabric. It’s enough to make Nicole Ritchie start eating—herself.

Definitely don’t order Glass Noodles.

Volgonic Verizon is probably pretty damn proud of themselves for this bit of synergistic noodling (click image). Visualizing a carton of wiring kinda turns my stomach, though.

(pic scanned from a boring-ass Wall Street Journal article talking about Verizon trying to worm [sorry] in on entrenched local cable companies.)

Duck-Voiced Men Have Needs, Too.

Since he was recently voted the unsexiest man in the world, I thought Gilbert Gottfried would make the perfect pitchman for the popular Fleshlight male sex toy. We brought him in to do spec radio for the product. Here’s the script, as recorded, for the first :30 spot:
(sfx: squeaking, muffled repetitive pounding)
Gottfried (breathing heavily, talking in a “jerking” manner): Hell-lo Gil-bert Gottttfried here, world’s un-un-un-sexist mmmman, exxx-tollllling the vir-vir-virtues of the Flessh-light sex toyeee…I’ve been tolllld it feels j-j-just like the real thinggg. I don’t know a-a-about that b-b-but it does feel s-s-s-o GOD damn fuck-ing goooood. Oh. Oh. Oh! AF-FLAC!!!
sexy female V/O: The Fleshlight. 30 seconds to heaven.
Still waiting to hear back from parent company Interactive Life Forms, Inc.

Fendi No. 5

Advertising in daily newspapers is tricky. Sizes and placement often get screwed up. Color matching is near impossible. And then there's the wonderful bleed-through effect; which in this case, worked out marvelously for Fendi. Because you just know Nicole does not want to be seen anywhere near a Fendi bag. Not for less than 10 million.
(click image. note the bag handle intersecting with Kidman's perfect little nose)
(ad ran as it appears in the Sunday New York Times Styles section.)

Can't spell "anthropomorphism" without "Mohr"

anthropomorphism—the attribution of human characteristics to nonhuman things.
After a bit of thought, I've concluded that this Diet Pepsi campaign is the worst soft drink advertising ever (#1. #2.) Easily. It is a vortex of bad. Brown bubbly piles of ad shit. A can is a human star, and "comedian" Jay Mohron is his/her "agent" (Questionable casting, that. That can's going nowhere.). Jesus, WTF is wrong with you, agency/client people? Are you itching that badly to see the four horsemen of the apocalypse?
(pictured: Mohr's stunt head [really] from 1998's Mafia.)
read what Mohr himself has to say about his shitty sell-out job here.
• previously: Worst. Anthropomorphism. EVER.

The Wrinkle-Free Van Heusen Man.

Yes, I wear wrinkle-free Van Heusen shirts and ONLY wrinkle-free Van Heusen shirts. Blue. Blue. Blue. Blue. And Blue (M-F). You want to know what else is wrinkle-free about me? My pants. My forehead. My evenings. My diet. my golf game. My conversations. My sex life. My scrotum.
(at least he ain't got an eye-patch)

Law Firm Issued Nitwit Writ.

From Wikipedia: A giraffe's heart has to generate around double the normal blood pressure for a large mammal in order to maintain blood flow to the brain. Male giraffes determine female fertility by tasting the female's urine. Giraffes are thought to be mute.
Stupid piss-drinking speechless animal. Good correlation choice, Dykema.

(scanned from Wall Street Journal)

The makers of the 2nd best photoluminescent safety egress system must be so pissed.

Every once in a great while, I come across an ad headline that I just can not argue with.

(scanned from an issue of Crain's NY Business)

Magazine Day, NYC.

Have you heard? Today is the 10th annual Magazine Day, being held at the "swanky" Marriott Marquis. The morning's general session is titled:
"The role of the increasingly demanding consumer and what this means for the magazine business (um, death?)"
After this idea-crammed hour, attendees will have the opportunity to sit in on two of the following four "breakout" sessions:
• The "inter-net": a beginner's guide.
• The most comfortable blinders on the market.
• Amway.
• How to keep a straight face while using terms like "shed light" and "touch points" in meetings.

ihatecapripants

Just a quick note to let you know I am starting up the ihatecapripants blog again. Unlike here, I will only update it once or twice a week.

That's Mr. 'Douche' Brittney.

Oh Brittney, you clueless lass. As the bottom of this New York Times ad says, Brittney is an advertising major at NYIT. She's probably put together a nice spec portfolio. What Brittney hasn't put together yet is that Douche, Inc. is a shithole of a sweat shop that is coming off another shit year. Brittney, have you seen the inside of Douche's agency? It's an ugly macho concrete tomb. The days of those cute IKEA TV spots are looooong gone. As is Douche himself. But, Brittney, what's left of his testosterone is boiling, you might have read.
Best to move on down the block.

(note: I cut off the bottom of the ad because it includes Brittney's last name.)

previously:
Donnie Deutsch Mark!
Good Thursday

The Good Hands, Bad Taste People.

The image (click it) from a full-page ad in today's Wall Street Journal. The headline reads:

If San Francisco had the same size quake as in 1906, it could cost $400 billion to rebuild.

Multi-billion dollar insurer Allstate apparently thinks this is an appropriate visual to show the good business people of Shaky Town that, 100 years later, they will be there to pick up the pieces for them—for a price. Hurry, call your Rep today!

Staten Island needs to be distilled, like, five times by itself.

A Pox On You. Vox, a vodka from the fucking Netherlands, has had this painted building poster (click image) up for months and months on Houston St. It has—s l o w l y—wormed its way into my crawl (hillbilly phrase). Here's the scenario: Client buys space. Agency is challenged to come up with a "New York" execution. Writers/art directors scratch heads/balls/cooters/butts for a week. This is what you end up with: Distilled Advertising that's been through the wringer and reads like it. Pure pollution.

Taglines are DUMB, NYC Auto Show edition.

(In honor of this week's Auto Show at the Jacob Javits Center, I sifted through all the car slogans. Most of them are terrible, but these are my bottom 4)
• Moving Forward? I should hope so. You're a FUCKING car.
• Reach Higher? Do you think you could be any more generically meaningless?
• Born From Jets? Well, so are BMWs, Mitsubishis, etc. And, who gives a flying fuck? BMWs are also born from Gas Chambers (Bayerische Motoren Werke made them during WWII.) I don't envision that tidbit ever being used in their marketing materials.
• Grab Life By The Horns? Judging by Dodge's reliability record (Ram Tough my ass) you'll actually be grabbing your mechanic by the fucking neck. Often.

previously:
Taglines are DUMB, #3.
Taglines are DUMB, #2.
Taglines are DUMB, #1.

Increase Market Share With Byzantine Chants.

This week's Crain's NY Business has a profile on James Speros, new Marketing Chief at financial services firm Marsh & McLennan. He's a Marketing Lifer, with previous stretches at Ernst & Young and AT&T (apparently he will only work for you if you have an ampersand in your name). Boring stuff, I know. BUT, lucky for us the now ubiquitous iPod playlist was included in his Personnel File. Let's take a look at the "secrets of his success." He's a good listener? Yeah, of bad music. Aha! There it is! No "unorthodox" marketing methods for him. He probably pumps the chants in over the company-wide intercom system.
Whatever the fuck you believe might work, James.
Happy Various Religious Holidays, everybody. (back Monday).

Probably the evilest thing I've ever seen.

That's right. Somebody performed not two, not four, but FIVE Gummy Bear face transplants (click image). And that somebody is an advertising art director (of course) from the land of 'roos and Yahoo Seriouses. Her name is Rikki. Read her blog. It is chewy.

ABSOLUT KRAP.

Absolut's advertising hasn't been even mildly interesting for years—the Swedish vodka seriously needs a fresh execution (I'll do it for a one-time fee of one million dollars, V&S Vin & Sprit AB. Hello?). But; this ad took the campaign from Blandsville to Shitburgh. It is trying so so so so so so so hard to be cool. So hard, it makes me physically ill.
Yeah, snake that guitar cord. More snaking! Let's try a couple of different thicknesses on the cord. Is that enough jewelry and piercings? Let's shoot him in 10 different dark shades of wifebeater and 6 different tightnesses. Also, 1, 2 and 3 days beard-growth. We'll do aviators, wrap-arounds, mirror lens. Make sure those tats are hot-lit!!!
Total cost of 2-week photo shoot: $13,687,239.57

"C'mon baby, It's low in calories."

Succumb to Smooth?
SUCK CUM. 2 (number of sperm-producing testicles most men have). SMOOTH(IE) [slang for Blowjob].
Plus, very Phallic bottle shot.
Maybe I'm analyzing it too much.
But, I just don't think so.

I THINK, THEREFORE I AM STUPID.

What does thinking about something as stupid as advertising for five straight days do to a person? It eats away at you man, it really does.

(with no apologies to Descartes, who also penned this beaut: "One cannot conceive anything so strange and so implausible that it has not already been said by one philosopher or another." Replace "philosopher" with "copywriter" and it applies perfectly.)

Today, I am a CEO.

(An open letter from a copywriter writing a letter for a CEO)
Dear Valued Reader:
This is one of those banner days in ad copywriting where I get to write a letter for a CEO. That's right. Mr. High Tech Genius, Creator of his own proprietary high tech product, Founder of his own high tech company, doesn't write his own high tech letters to his own high tech customers. No, he gives the assignment to his MBA marketing manager who, instead of writing it, gives the assignment to our tech-savvy MBA account executive who, instead of writing it, gives the assignment to me——Mr. 2.8 GPA Son Of Appalachian Trail Hillbillies Who Spelt (sic) At A 5th Grade Level When He Was In 8th Grade. This will be about the 100th time I've had to do this. I know U.S. Presidents have speech writers, but they are always, you know, smarter than their CEOs. There are only two explanations here: 1. Mr. CEO is lazy. 2. Mr. CEO has no arms. Here's how I'm starting the letter:
Dear Valued Customer:

Sincerely,
copyranter

Tastes Good Like A Cigarette Should. Redux.

RJ Reynolds, you sly evil fucks. Big•Fat•Delicious. Sit down and dine on a plate of beautifully presented Southwestern scrumptiousness—with thick juicy Camel Wides as the entrée. Welcome back to Flavor Country, baby! They contain Carbon Monoxide? Bah. A smoky steak probably's got that and worse, right?
(scanned from this week's Village Voice)

"Hey boys, want some PUNCH?"

I basically ignore pre-teen children. But then, Hickey Freeman placed this ad in the New York Times featuring these two future insufferable i-bankers. This is why New York City needs more Nelson Muntzes. First: Since their junior Wall Street outfits will get ripped and bloodstained from the repeated bully poundings, Mommy Socialite and Daddy Analyst will stop peeling off the greenbacks for this abhorrent clothing—not to stop the beatings but because the purchases will become bad investments. Second: The poundings will teach Carson & Justin hard life lessons that would otherwise escape them.

ANDYs promoted with Anilingus.

(click image for closer look)
The ANDY Awards, a show that ranks about 9th or 10th on advertising's list of industry self-sycophantry, has resorted to Rimming to draw ad assholes to Guastavino's here in NYC April 25th. The wretchedness of the ad awards process does leave a bad taste in one's mouth.

(scanned from today's AdWeek)

Is IT In YOU?

That's right Little Leaguers! You wanna play for the Yankees someday, you gotta start hitting the sauce now. Gatorade Smatorade. Tell coach to fill the cooler with Johnnie Walker and ice. When you shred your ass sliding badly into second, you won't feel a fucking thing kid. Plus, coach will be happy, win or lose. Just don't let him drive you home.
Johnnie Walker:
Official Sports Drink
of the New York Yankees.
(clipped from yesterday's NY Times baseball preview section.)
(Note: "Johnny" Walker was a catcher with the Philadelphia A's for parts of three seasons from 1919-1921. He had a .251 career average with 2 HRs.)