It’s unfortunate, we had an incredible article planned for you today. It had dinosaurs, and robots and a bald eagle punching Hitler in the taint with a star spangled boxing glove.
We put together a video which showed the two of us hang gliding off of Mount Rushmore, shooting machine guns into the air and humming “America the Beautiful”. It was glorious.
And we would have loved to share it with you today, but NO. The internet’s on strike… or something. I don’t understand it all and I haven’t made an attempt to educate myself about the subject. All I know is that the internet is taking the day off in protest again soap. I have no idea why the internet is so adamantly against cleanliness, or what the people at Ivory may have done to wrong the World Wide Web, but it seems highly irrational and misplaced. And what ANY of it has to do with Kate Middleton’s sister, I can’t even begin to figure.
“What’s the big deal?” you might be asking us rhetorically. “So the internets are closed today, just post all of this majesty tomorrow and we can still have our faces be-rocked by your glory and patriotism then, when the protest is over.”
Well, I’m sorry dear reader, but it simply doesn’t work that way. You see, once we have produced a piece of content, if it is not used immediately, we must dispose of it humanely and scatter its ashes over our ornate altar to Dave Barry. We don’t make these rules. If we did, obviously we would want to share these things with you, but as they were finished and intended to be posted today, and will not be because of the internet’s love of filthy hands and hatred of the British crown, we will have to put today’s post down and never speak of it again.
Hopefully tomorrow the computing community will have made what ever point it is they are trying to make and we can get back to business as usual: pointing out how things and people are dumb and or have vaginas, and you can get back to enjoying it. But as for the spectacularity that we had planned for today, sorry, our hands are tied, blame SOPA and PIPA for forcing us to sacrifice it to the gods of displaced humor content. It’s entirely the fault of those two hand fulls of capital letters.
So, just what exactly am I supposed to do with all these American Flag flavored condoms now?
People, this has simply got to stop. It seems a week doesn’t go by that I don’t have to step up and say the unpopular, but almost impossibly obvious to one and all: Kanye West is not Hitler. I thought we went over this. I thought we had all come to an understanding, that while Kanye West may very well have an over inflated sense of self worth, while Kanye West quite possibly believes he has super powers and the ability to rock it with the ferocity of ten super star, genetically enhanced crocodiles and though he almost certainly has exterminated his fair share of Jews; Kanye West is NOT Hitler.
Let’s take a look at the facts, shall we? First of all, Kanye West is alive, baby. Not only that, he’s super alive, he’s livin’ harder than the next eleven Kanye Wests out there. Meanwhile, Hitler is almost certainly dead. I haven’t seen his mustachioed bones, but it seems to me if he were otherwise, we would probably have heard something about it by now. So, exhibit A of thesis: Kanye West is not Hitler.
See, I’ve been trying to squash this before it reached the hardcore aural receptors of Kingye Best, but even my ever vigilant crusade to assure the universe that Kanye West was not Hitler could not keep the man from having to address it personally. I expect to be punished thoroughly for my failure, and I know that I will deserve it.
This last Saturday, while performing at the Big Chill music festival Kanye took a well deserved break from jam kicking, to let the audience know what was on his incredibly talented mind. You’re welcome audience.
“I walk through the hotel and I walk down the street, and people look at me like I’m (expletive) insane, like I’m Hitler,” Not Hitler said. “One day the light will shine through and one day people will understand everything I ever did.”
Now sure, alright, yeah, you could argue that the last half of that sentence could maybe, kinda sorta sound a little bit like something Hitler might have said. But that doesn’t make the man Hitler! Not ONCE in the recorded history of Hitler, did Hitler ever say he wasn’t Hitler! Not once! Not Hitler case rested.
Of course, the audience, already well aware that there is no possible way that Kanye West COULD be Hitler, not after the multi-million dollar PSA campaign, returned to the be-Kanyed stage, a smattering of what the untrained ear might call “Boos”. We in the business of audience reactioning like to call those “Round Cheers”. They’re a way that crowds that don’t understand how thoroughly they’re being entertained express their momentary confusion and fear.
The crowd may also have been confused with excitement, by the fact that Mr. Not Hitler’s set started approximately 30 minutes late. But as he explained upon his eventual arrival, he was only “late” because he “needed to make sure his performance was great.” Again, you’re the fuck welcome. This man, this non-genocidal, misunderstood and underappreciated giver of himself unto you is not just dicking around, depriving you of your enjoyment of him because he’s busy clearing his name of Hitler accusations, though that does account for almost eighty-five percent of his waking hours, he is keeping you waiting to make sure that you get the best possible Kanye West experience that Kanye West can possibly Kanye West!
Could Hitler do that? I think we all know the answer to that…
No. No he couldn’t, is the point I was trying to make… Kanye West isn’t Hitler. Please, don’t make me have to go over this again…
Hugh Marston Heffner retaliated to his ex-fiance’s accusations by posting the following Twitter things …
I don’t which one confuses me more … the fact that Hugh Hefner can get his hands on ripeness like that or that he actually uses Twitter. I mean let’s think about it … here’s a list of the things that were around when HH was born in 1926.
Walt Disney Studios forms
Air Mail begins in the US
1st transatlantic telephone call (London-NY)
Mussolini’s wife breaks his nose
30th Boston Marathon – Now at 115th
52nd Kentucky Derby – Now at 137th
Thomas Edison says Americans prefer silent movies over talkies
Houdini stays in a coffin under water for 1½ hrs before escaping
Weather map televised for 1st time
Jerry Lewis, Don Rickles and Soupy Sales born
Henry Ford announces 8 hour, 5-day work week
Babe Ruth hits 3 HRs in a World Series game
NBC (National Broadcasting Corporation) forms
U.S. Route 66 is established
2nd part of Hitler’s Mein Kampf published
So for you, Crystal the bitch, to bag on Hugh’s fornication stopwatch, well all I have to say is F YOU with a capital F !! That dude was around when Babe Ruth was still hitting homeruns, like he was doin’ with you … for 2 seconds at a time !! BAMMM !!
Human beings have kind of a sick obsession with dead bodies.
Don’t get me wrong, I’m not a monster, I get that the rapidly decaying, lifeless corpse over there used to belong to someone you had some fondness for. But at no point forward will that bio degrading fleshy mound of used ta was, ever do anything again that it used to do when previously possessed by the life force of who ever they aren’t anymore. Tickle it all you’d like, it ain’t never gonna giggle that unmistakable titter that you fell in love with. Call it by name, dangle it’s favorite bag of salty treats in front of it, it’s not going to pop up and suddenly begin recirculating all of your favorite bloods and give you a great big knowing hug. And if it DOES, run like hell for a stabbing or shooting utensil because your loved one is now zombified and it’s either you or it Jack!
The point I’m trying to make is this: the second your beloved friend, relative or lover breathes their last, the container they left behind that they used to drive around in to be recognizable to other things living in this plane of existence is no more them than the carton that the milk came in is going to help increase your bone density. You’re just left with an expensive bag of recycling. Feel free to mourn the person you’ve lost, but let’s try to be a little more reasonable about what remains, and treat it more like the ’74 Rambler that it is.
Now that I’ve angered and alienated most of you, let’s get to the two stories I found this morning about the uproar caused by the cremating of one barely dead (and mistaken) infant, and one already excessively dead Nazi…
Apparently, last year an Ohio funeral home made an isty bitsy boo boo and set alight the wrong dead baby, which, surprisingly, wasn’t met well by the guardians of said unintentionally reduced child shell. The story states that, due to a morgue mix up the body of a 14 month old was mistakenly released to the Marlan J. Gary Funeral Home, in stead of the 22 DAY old infant intended for a ride on the grill. And because the Funeral Home just cooked the baby they were given, they had their license suspended for six months.
This issue raises a lot of, what I feel are natural questions with me. Now, I’m no baby scientist, I’ve said that time and time again when ever someone runs up to me in a panic, desperately pleading for my expertise in baby science, so I feel it bears repeating: I’m no baby scientist, but I’m fairly certain that there is a decided difference between the density and general volume of the body of a one year and two month old child versus that of a three week and one day old child. I could go to Target right now and pick up a jumper with a tag that says “0-4 months” or something, and compare that to a pair of slacks in the “Pre-pre-pre School to Pre-pre School” section and likely not be surprised by the decided difference in expected sizes.
So, does a hearse just back up to a morgue, wait to hear the thump in the bed and drive off, or are there some sort of checks in place to make sure that not only is the morgue giving away the right dead baby, but that the funeral home is RECEIVING the right dead baby? Just the shere handling of the body seems like it would tip me off if I were a dead baby delivery man. If I’m delivering a deceased 22 day old, I expect I should be able to chuck that bitch in the back of a corpse limo with one hand. Just lob it in under hand and high five myself for another day of life more than that poor bastard. And if it took say, two hands and a little bit of heft, and I checked my clip board and it said “22 dayer” I would probably wonder if I had the right infant cadaver.
Conversely, if I were a crematorier, just thinking from a strictly business stand point, I imagine I use a different amount of fuel to burn the body of a 22 day old than I would for a 14 month old. So if I were intending to roast a 22 day old, put in a bag of 22 day older fuel and just tossed in what I thought was a 22 day old, I imagine if I were to come back later, I would likely find a good deal of 14 month old left uncrematized and wonder if my baby burning fuel supplier was fucking me over.
Aside from all of that obviousness, what gets me the most about the article is where is says:
“A hearing officer noted that cremation is irreversible and said funeral directors must take precautions to ‘get it right.’ ”
I doubt that most people need be reminded that reducing human remains to ash is awful difficult to undo. I’m certain that most of us didn’t think that cremation was just a fancy term for “dehydration” and that a body could just be returned to its former glory by simply splashing it with a Dixie cup of water.
Meanwhile, over in Germany in what seems like one of the more extreme promotional tie-ins I’ve seen for tomorrow’s release of Marvel’s “Captain America: The First Avenger”; the bones of Rudolf Hess, one of Adolph Hitler’s deputies, were exhumed and cremated. Germans don’t quite get the collectible cup level of promotion, and you can’t tell them that they’re doing it wrong or they might murder millions of Jews.
It seems that, with the lease on Hess’ burial plot coming up for renewal in October, and with the grave site having become a pilgrimage site for neo-Nazis, “Hess’ relatives and Lutheran church authorities in the town decided it was best to remove the remains.” And viola, no more neo-Nazis. Right?
“The grave is now empty,” said cemetery administrator Andreas Fabel. “The bones are gone.”
Soooo… neo-Nazis couldn’t still commune at the former grave site of their martyred hero?
They apparently “cremated the remains and scattered them secretly in a lake, whose name and location are not being divulged”, so in a way, they’ve sort of made just about anywhere a fair place to come together and celebrate the memory of Rudolf Hess. He’s now circulating in the water ways of Where Ever Germany, being carried out to sea, and floating about on the breeze. These short sighted Nazi haters have effectively dusted all of us with Nazi particles. Thanks, just what I needed, to breathe Nazi while I’m just minding my own business, hating just fine on my own thank you very much. I really have a hard time believing that neo-Nazis are so sentimental that they’re going to have any difficulty mustering up enough focused drive to gather for a hate fest just because the bones of one of their heroes, that they could never positively confirm or deny the existence of in the first place, might not be where they were last week.
But if it makes you feel any better Lutherans, congratulations, you just re-killed a dead Nazi. You won World War II. And you just spoiled the ending of “Captain America” for me, assholes!
Buy our new chicken tenders: they won’t rape you like our competitor’s fish sticks might!
It just took me ten seconds to write that, and half of that time was spent looking up whether or not anyone’s ever been raped by a chain restaurant fish stick. And what I’ve just created is what we in the advertising game call a “Rage-portunity”.
As I’ve detailed in the past the purpose of advertising is not to inform or entertain, but to manipulate and illicit a reaction, whether it’s a positive one or not doesn’t matter, all that matters is that you remember it. Because long after you’ve forgotten that I gave you my word that my appetizers were almost entirely rape free, you will still remember the name of Admiral Tasty’s Home for Battered Fish. I don’t think that you’re being constantly manipulated by advertisers preying on your basest human emotions is any big surprise. What I do think is surprising is how it continues to work just as easily today as when the first cave man said of his new line of pointed sticks “Ogg, grog ooh! Ooo! Ah-ah-Ooo!” Provocative to be sure, but he couldn’t be-point sticks fast enough after that feces smeared message appeared on a rock across from the fire.
This little gem apparently appeared on the sky line of South Bend, Indiana a couple weeks ago. They have since been removed after complaints from residents who called the campaign irresponsible and thoughtless. And those people are wrong.
Why do I say that? Is it because I am simply a contrarian, poised at the drop of an opinion to mindlessly, reflexively take up the opposing argument out of a desperate, sad play for attention, any type of which, whether it be positive or negative, I wrongfully translate into “love”, equating the very act of being acknowledged as a confirmation that my existence is not futile and anonymous, that in fact the universe does hear my shouts into the void and that the annoyed groans of those who answer back are the closest thing I will ever experience to an actual inter personal connection with another living being?
You’re stupid and your hair smells dumb.
No, in fact I say this because there was nothing “thoughtless” about this billboard. You don’t put a fifty foot fuck you to 900 corpses in the sky without hundreds of someones looking at it and approving it before it even gets off a note pad. The question comes down to, does it work, and is it worth the investment?
I’ve never been to Indiana personally, and as far as I can tell, Hacienda Mexican Restaurants isn’t a national chain, so I’d never heard of the establishment before. I’ve heard of it now. Plus, I know that their margaritas are so good, you’ll think they’re poison. And after a brief search for rates for a 14′ x 48′ billboard, I couldn’t find how much it might cost to insult the families of 900 dead cult followers, or what exactly one would have to pay to shock and outrage those more easily shockable and outrageous commuters of a small midwestern town. Again though, I imagine the national attention and coverage would certainly have cost quite a bit more.
Now, I don’t want to say that people are predictable and easily manipulated, because you’re so handsome and or beautiful that even attempting to do so would be an insult to your colossal intellect and firm, luscious breasts and or penis. I also don’t have time to show you the exact equation to represent the inverse effect of negative publicity on the volume of cheesed tortilla chips sold, or the precise calculations on the effect of referring to your lightly alcoholed sugar rimmed frosty drink as a “9/11 of flavor” versus a “Holocaust of fruit in your mouth oven”. I have them, but they only exist in glossy color chart form in my office where I teach young ad execs how to easily remove their soul so that they can store all of the money their protested ads will be making them.
“Our role is not to be controversial or even edgy. We want to be noticed…” said the vice president of sales and marketing at Hacienda while trying to stifle a giggle as he thumbed through the wad of cash in his pocket. It’s not hard to shock people today, we’re such an insulated society that continues to pad itself against more and more of the obscene and crude world around it while simultaneously lapping that same smut up with a spoon. Things that were considered common place and ordinary a few short decades ago are now looked at with shock and confusion that any of it was ever allowed to happen without immediately being followed by a flurry of lawsuits detailing how seeing someone do something that had nothing to do with them hurt their feelings ever so much.
But who am I to dismiss a winning formula? It seems arrogant and dishonest of me to believe myself above it all when I so desperately want to draw eyes to this very site. So with that in mind, allow me to introduce my new ad campaign for Van Full of Candy:
Van Full of Candy, it’s what Hitler would laugh at!