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Commercials that made me crazy the other night... - It seemed like a good idea at the time... [entries|archive|friends|userinfo]
terribleturnip

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Commercials that made me crazy the other night... [Apr. 10th, 2008|08:19 am]
terribleturnip
Now obviously, I don't watch a lot of television anymore, especially in real time -- pretty much some surgical strikes and videotaping that involves fast forwarding through commercials.

Or was it because I was watching on a Saturday night and they figure if you're home on a Saturday night, you've probably got something wrong with you or can be easily convinced that there is.

Anyway, we start out with "I don't have time to get the fiber I need, but thanks to ProductICan'tRemember, now I can just take this pill." You don't have time for fiber? Honey, it's not like you have to go out into the forest, cut down some bamboo and pound it out, make a paste and then cook it into bars. Just eat a piece of whole grain toast or some oatmeal, some orange juice for breakfast, a freaking apple for a snack and have some beans for dinner... How could you NOT have time for that? If you don't have time for that...you've got bigger problems in your life than lack of fiber, sweetheart.

And then the Nivea cellulite reducing cream -- that featured 2 minutes of 98 pound, 20 year old models prancing around. Dude, they don't have any cellulite yet -- which could be why your cream works so well. Slap that s*** on my 45 year old, turnip-pulling, wagon-hauling thighs and let's see how well it works...

And then finally, the car commercial -- again, how effective could it be, since I can't remember which car it was, but it asked the question:

When you turn your car on, does it return the favor? What? Dude, I just want the car to start. I get turned on by...members of my own species. But I guess I know women who actually look more favorably on a potential date because he drives a cool car. I say cool, because I really struggle even understanding the concept. I actually blew off a date because he drove a...hell, whatever car that was in the '80s that had the big Eagle across the hood. I'm like, oh, no way, we have NOTHING in common, I can tell right now.

Does the Captain know how lucky he is? My big rules on the kind of car my potential date must have is: it shouldn't smell icky inside and ideally has potential to carry a lot of stuff. Dripping oil is a bad sign, but I'll get over it if he's good in bed.

I've never been able to bring myself to date a guy who's really into his car. If there's going to be all sorts of fondling and rubbing and polishing and admiring -- I want it to be me, not the car, that gets THAT kind of attention.
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Comments:
[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-04-10 06:15 pm (UTC)
No, that wasn't me. I usually remember being blown off.
All I was doing was naming the auto. I inherited a lovely white 81 Camero Berlinetta from a friend. It was classy looking and had a great sound system.
It also was a pig on ice. The back seat was about 3 feet across. If anyone tells you that they had sex in the rear set of a 81 Camero or Trans Am, they are lying. (unless they are some of those Chinses circus contortionists. Hmmmm, I'm just going to think about that for a while...right)
Well, anyway, it wasn't me. I would not own a car with a big ugly eagle decal across the hood unless it came supplied with contortionists.
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[User Picture]From: lowlandscot
2008-04-10 10:53 pm (UTC)
And just to continue the car geekery and further demonstrate that a man with a car fetish never impressed me because I was the one with the grease under my fingernails: the Pontiac analogue to the Camaro was the Firebird. The Trans Am was a particular high performace package of the Firebird. And, as you might guess from the name, the "eagle" on the hood was really supposed to be a phoenix. It didn't really look like either one.
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[User Picture]From: skivee
2008-04-10 10:56 pm (UTC)
I admit in shame that you are correct. My life has no meaning now.
Well, at least I did correctly remember that I had an 81 Camero. That should be good for a few points.
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