Gone snorkeling with the Speedo®-sporting Donnie Deutsch.

copyranter will be shutdown starting tomorrow through Monday, September 4th. But, if you have any suggestions, crappy ads, etc. you would like me to address, leave a comment with this post. I will try my best not to scoff at it. Wanna tell me to go fuck myself? Please, the floor is yours—just try to be somewhat creative about it. Back the day after Labor Day, angry and early.

previously:
1. Cosmic Blob Supplants Donny Deutsch's Ego As Largest Thing In Universe.
2. "Live" "Blogging" "From" Cannes.
3. Donnie Deutsch Mark!

Jimmy Choo. Shoes to die for.

I went through approximately 10,000 pages of Fall Fashion magazines (cliché alert—so you wouldn't have to) to find the weirdest of approximately 9,900 Fashion ads. (click image) Yep. She's dead and he's gonna bury her. Or, she's still alive and he's gonna bury her alive. New York plates. Is that Carrie Bradshaw? This would have been a much better Sex and the City finale.
Update: an anon commenter says that these new Choo ads were done by hacky director Brett Ratner. Figures.

previously:
1. Fendi No. 5
2. Models lighter than Cotton.
3. American Apparel: Made With Dov.
4. DIESEL Woos fcuk Hoi Polloi.

copyranter celeb dish #2: meeting with LT.

Setting: Ad agency conference room.
Meeting: The Licensing Group that owned the Starter® Athletic Apparel name.
Participants: 2 men from the client, 3 men from the agency, and Lawrence Taylor, former New York Giant and NFL Hall of Fame linebacker (LT was apparently going to be a Money Man for Starter.)
Introductions are made. Agency head starts in with a brief credentials spiel, when, suddenly, LT interrupts with a pressing question.
LT: WHERE'RE THE BITCHES?
(a couple of nervous guffaws followed by awkward silence.)
LT: NO REALLY, YOU GOT ANY BITCHES WORKING HERE?
(flashes big LT smile)
I don't really remember how the rest of the meeting went.
(headshot scanned from latest issue of Cigar Aficionado)

previously:
copyranter celeb dish #1

As far as I can tell, it's a rhetorical question.

My story? Well, Aldo, I walk around Manhattan with a camera looking for advertising billboards that make absolutely no fucking sense. Like yours here. I went to your website to file my story—as your billboard seems to be asking me to do—but found nary a word about Aldo customer stories, kinky shoe stories, or any fucking stories at all. That's my story. Oh, also, I don't like a lot of things in this world, now including the ugly-ass manboots pictured (click image).
(corner of Houston and Lafayette)

previously (here's most of my outdoor-related posts):
1. Smart Media Placement, StarFuckheads.
2. O STUPID BILLBOARD, O STUPID BILLBOARD...
3. Starbucks seriously needs to go to Billboarding School.
4. Evening Wood
5. Kenneth Cole's Puns are Re-Hyphen-Tarded.
6. Staten Island needs to be distilled, like, five times by itself.
7. WHAT???
8. 6-23-06
9. Cole Loses Yet Another Battle In War On Words.
10. "Oh my! Look at the size of him! You'll be needing at least a triplex darling..."
11. A small price to pay for a big package.
12. Say Nothing and Say It LOUDLY.
13. The inportance of Times Square billboard juxtaposition.
14. The G-Star Glory Hole.
15. TIME Graffiti Billboard
16. Five-story models compete for my love.
17. "C'mon baby, It's low in calories."

The MTA. Very anal.

The MTA has deemed that the above bus ad is too obscene for the wholesome island of Manhattan. Here's a solution for you, Georgi people: Take the budget you would have spent on this bus poster buy, and pay a hundred hot pieces of ass to walk around high traffic areas of NYC during rush hours with your logo and bottle shot on their white bikini bottoms. Much more effective, and ain't shit nobody can do about it, too.

The Great Wall of New York.

Weber's on 32nd street east of Penn Station was built in 1925, and was designed by the same company that built the Empire State Building. What are the bags made of? Who fucking cares! They're 2 dollars and 50 cents, and they, like, hold stuff. Hey ladies—how much did you pay for your last Prada bag? For that price, you could have bought the entire inventory here, including backroom stock. (to pick out your fav, click image.)

previously:
NYC Window Displays—Zamir Furs.

Vintage Cigarette Ads.

(click images)
The top two Camel ads are from 1937. The bottom two are from the early 60s. Amazing. Camel got a world champion hurdler and a smoke-eater (nice irony) to endorse the digestive qualities of a particular brand of cigarette. Then, we have a downtime clown. And finally, Pall Mall compares the taste of its cigs to a watermelon. Pall Mall never made candy cigarettes, did they?
(all found at adclassix.com)

Jason Binn is a Prick: The Evidence.

I hate jason binn (lowercase for emphasis of unimportantness) publisher of the shitpile of shit-awful magazines collectively known as Niche Media. I hate him nearly as much as Donny Douche Deutsch. Here's why.
1. Exhibit A: Walking west on 9th street once, whom should bound out of the lobby of the building on the corner of 9th and 5th Ave. but the five-foot nothing binn. He gets to the back door of his waiting, idling limo, but the poor doorman is a second and a half late opening the door for his Prickness. binn stands there and waits with a nasty fucking scowl on his doughy face and a 2-mile stare in his eyes and doesn't even acknowledge the presence of the doorman, forget tipping him.
2. Exhibit B: I pick up the phone at our agency one day (we're a small place. even smug, dickhead copywriters have to answer calls.) The tiniest voice I've ever heard asks for our media director. I ask him who's calling. He lowers his voice even further and says at a decibel level akin to that of beating butterfly wings: "jason binn."
I say: "I'm sorry. Excuse me?"
(HUGE SIGH OF CONTEMPT. you know the sound.) "jason binn."
It is not until after I transfer the call that I make out in my head what the hell name he was saying.

prick.

UPDATE: an anon tipster relays that binn is persona non grata at Michael's because he stiffed them on a house charge tab.

My Birthday Suit.

Yes, today is my actual birthday. Yes, that is actually me in the pic. Fuck you. (nice shoes, huh? thanks Mom.) Anyway, go read a poem/rap my girlfriend wrote for me here.

Snakes on a Motherf'ing Pump.

(click image)
What to wear to tomorrow's premiere of Snakes On A Plane: For a mere motherfuckin' $1,090, you hot bitches out there gotta go get yourselves a pair of these motherfuckin' Python Pumps from motherfuckin' Chanel. What? Are you going to wear motherfuckin' flip fuckin' flops? Fuck no! Hurry! Samuel L. fuckin' Jackson is counting on you!

previously:
Pirates of the Caribbean: The Bag.

Strange Image of the Week, #2.

The service is called Advertickets. It places your message on train tickets and boarding passes and such. None of that is important. What is important is why the art director felt that photoshopping/retouching this man into a mutant would be a good move. Also, Cantmissable?

previously:
1. Strange Image of the Week.
2. IT'S FRIDAY

Republic of China reshapes mountains for copyranter's birthday.

Apparently impressed with my anti-capitalist yet money-grubbing stance, Chinese Premier Wen Jiabao had an army of engineers blast these Guizhou Province mountains into "pert American breasts" for my upcoming birthday.
Jeez. Blushing over here.

previously:
They totally smoke a mini zen garden.

The G-Star Glory Hole.

(click image)
At this prime billboard location on the corner of Houston and Lafayette, the executions come and go quickly. But that one apartment window is always left uncovered. This time, the opening has left our otherwise trapped male model with—if he boosts himself up on the ledge— a glory hole. We can only hope that the accommodated apartment dwellers would "accommodate" the poor trapped man. Though judging by the shape and relative size of the hole, his G-Star outfit ain't the only thing that's going to be RAW.

previously:
Five-story models compete for my love.

"I'm Mr. Opportunity and I'm still a Dick."

Have you ever wished you could punch somebody in the face—say, Dennis Miller—right through your TV screen? Well, I'd like to take that one step further away from reality and smash this imaginary Honda spokesdoofus right in his smug mouth. Right after he says, "This deal is irresistible—kinda like me."

Moises Alou pees on his hands before games.

A short feature in this month's GQ (not available online) details unusual things pro athletes do to heal injuries. This is a scan of a photo-illustration for the article representing steaming pee on the hands of the San Francisco Giants outfielder. Along with New York Yankees catcher Jorge Posado, Alou swears by this, um, treatment to toughen his hands and prevent blisters. Said Posada, "You don't want to shake my hand during spring training."
Questions come to mind:
1. Do Alou/Posada wash their hands after peeing on them?
2. If a teammate is on a "hot streak", do the two stick their hands under the other player's pissing penis?
3. Has Alou ever asked pee-shy teammate Barry Bonds if he could have some of his #1?
4. We must think—what about the poor bat boys?

They totally smoke a mini zen garden.

This is the pair of squeezable Stress Boobs that my smart- and cute-as-heck art director—and fellow Leo—Keri got me for my birthday. The raised bumps really make 'em special.

How's My Blogging? Call 800-U-SHUT-UP.

CPB, the Miami ad agency lurved the world over, included this actual bumper sticker as part of a VW insert in the September issue of Vanity Fair (probably other pubs, too). Now, I've owned a VW Gulf. Fun car. Great car. Solid ( I know how solid. I drilled an American car with it. Their larger car caved like a house of cheap cards while the Golf was hardly maimed. Nobody was hurt. It wasn't my fault. No really, it wasn't). I've also been snorkeling a couple of times. Therefore, I believe I can say definitively that—Yes, I would still rather be snorkeling then driving a fucking car. ANY car. Well, unless it was an invisible hover car with cannons and lasers.

previously:
I LIKE something...

"I say I say, I keep all my bowel movements numbered for just such an occasion!"

(click image)
Fucking Foghorn Leghorn. Promoting colon cancer screening? Not chicken pox prevention or an egg donor program or Bird Flu warning signs?
(The inside copy says: "I say I say...don't be a chicken. Get screened." OK, so it's tied together by the thinnest of threads.)

(taken in the waiting room of the Jay Monahan Center. no I don't have cancer, thanks for caring though.)

Right Gwynnie. And I'm Martian.

Paging through the "Fashion Rocks" supplement to the September issue of Vanity Fair, I first came across a David Bowie version of the keepachildalive.org ad at left. OK. Married to Iman. Probably has had Mick Jagger's lips around his cock once or thrice. I sort of bought it. Then, a few pages later, this. (big sigh) You are the whitest white girl in the entire white world, Paltrow. Cheers to you that you support a very worthy cause. But, allow someone else to do the ads. You'd survive about 10 minutes in African bush. And, you just look completely and utterly ridiculous.

You Can't Spell You Know What Without a 'Z'

The Head of DaimlerChrysler, Dieter "Dr. Z" Zetsche, freaks me the fuck out. I'm sure you've seen some of the new "funny" commercials featuring the German engineer (Here's 1). While I'm pretty confident he's not a Nazi, he sure as shit looks like a Heinrich Himmler straight outta Central Casting. Meanwhile, the spots have failed to generate sales.

previously:
CE-O what a mistake

My Shrink said: "watch more baseball."

It was Mike Piazza Comes Back To New York Night last night at Shea Stadium. We attended the game for free thanks to a wealthy shrink (no, not mine). Unfortunately, that meant I had to stare at this name plate all night. Inspired by it and the big full moon over right field, here's some non-Mike Piazza trivialities from the game:
• First utterance from old guys next to us making fun of Mets catcher Paul Lo Duca being caught cheating on his Playboy model wife—"He's already out at home (big cackles)."
• Second utterance from old guys next to us making fun of Mets catcher Paul Lo Duca being caught cheating on his Playboy model wife—"Come on Lo Duca. Cheat, get on base anyway you can (big cackles)."
• Most memorable name from the Happy Birthday list projected on the centerfield scoreboard: Shakey Moo-Moo.
• On the 7 train home, 2 young businessmen sitting next to each other, surrounded by standing Mets fans, were both deeply engrossed in their respective books, L-R: Atlas Shrugged, Ayn Rand; The Hottest State, Ethan Hawke.
(btw, Piazza went 1-4 with a meaningless single, and was given a standing ovation when he struck out in his first at-bat. Mets won 3-2.)

Where Gay Men, Angry Women Hook Up.

(click image)
His eyes say—the exact opposite of lust. Her eyes say—you gotta be kidding me with this cheap-ass rented limo. Apparently Lady Sluttington showed up to this first date wearing only underwear and that fur coat. But the most pressing question I have here is...what the hell is Sir Smoking Jacket doing with his hands?
(scanned from the atrocious Aspen Magazine.)

previously:
BIKINI KILL

Today's Lesson: The "C" Words.

(click image)
Very true, Ad Council. Excellent work. Few things in this City are worse than having to listen to some PG-rated Upper West Side Mommy/Daddy faux-tirade. So ineffective. Teach the children well—put up a blackboard at home so little Natasha can learn her the best phrases. Like:
• NICE TURN SIGNAL, CUNT (really hit the "Cunt")!
• I HOPE YOU SUCK COCK BETTER THAN YOU PARK, ASSWIPE!
and of course,
• FUCK YOU, YOU FUCKING FUCK!

(corner of Hudson & Grove,
across from P.S. 3 Charrette School)

The "GPH" Killer Strikes Again.

This is the logo for Ian Schrager's "reimagined" Gramercy Park Hotel—a "private clubhouse for the owners of the 23 residences of 50 Gramercy Park North." Your brilliance Ian? Or did you actually pay someone to come up with that thing? Either way, disco boy, the type looks like the signature of a late 19th century serial killer from a Caleb Carr novel. But it's actually apropos. Because your latest soulless hotel redesign killed one of the true cool bars in this city. Nice work, Shithead.

previously:
1. Free Jade Jagger Real Doll™ With Every Condo.
2. The Unparalleled Hyperbole of NYC Real Estate Advertising.
3. CLEARLY defining your target audience.

conEdison: FULL OF IT.

ON IT. Before over 100,000 Queens residents lost power for a full fucking week—just a goofy tagline. Now, a disastrously ironic one. And CEO Kevin Burke still doesn't even understand what "it" is. I was riding the uptown 6 yesterday morning and happened to walk into this car, which conEd had wallpapered end-to-end, top-to-bottom, probably before the blackouts. Not cheap, that media buy. Probably a 4-6 week run. One couldn't expect you red tape-wrapped morons to remove it before you got your money's worth—even if it makes you look ridiculously more moronic. Just read that copy in the blue box. Jesus. Your cones sure are cute, though.

related:
animalNY takes the temperature of the people.

Greenland coldcocks "cold" American beers.

You want me to taste the cold, Coors Light? You call yourself cold-filtered, Miller Genuine Draft? I call bullshit on both of you! Greenland is introducing a new beer made from the pure melted water of the Arctic ice cap. The product was officially launched in Copenhagen on Monday, and the first 66,000 litres of dark and pale ales are on their way to the Danish market. Germany and the U.S. have also expressed interest. Hey smarmy, drunk Pete Coors—Rocky Mountains, Smocky Mountains.

"Jane, you ignorant slut!" (apologies to Jane Curtin)

Who is Jane? Here, Jane says she's a narcissistic whore. Another headline in the campaign reads:
She's read Kafka.
She's memorized Zoolander.
Well, I went out and interviewed every young woman within Jane's demographic in the entire world that speaks English and could not find one solitary sassy young lass that fit the above description.
And, judging by the latest ad pages report, Jane should not be asking who is Jane, but where is Jane?

previously:
Butch Cassidy sez: Bang your husband. Eat your greens.

Yankee Clubhouse Soon To Smell Like Whorehouse.

It smells like—Victory. Avon announced yesterday that New York Yankees' captain Derek Jeter will release his very own men's fragrance this Fall called Driven. Forty-five minutes later, principal owner George Steinbrenner announced that the cologne will become the official "smell" of the Bronx Bombers.
"Since it smells so good, I think (my teammates) will be inclined to ask me for some," said Jeter in the WWD article.
"ALL the players will be required to wear it—Alex (Rodriguez) will be bathing it," boomed Steinbrenner. "It will become part of the Yankee dress code. No long hair, no facial hair, and Driven every gameday. After our team leaves a locker room, I want the next team coming through to know who was there before them.
"I want the concessioners, broadcasters, Bob Sheppard, the field crew, the Bleacher Creatures—anybody connected to the Yankees to be drenched in this stuff."

previously:
1. "the rankest compound(s) of villainous smell that ever offended nostril."—Shakespeare
2. Is IT In YOU?