Hey, Penguin ... Could You Hand Me A Towel?

What do you mean you're not finished with--?


Oh.

I see.



Well, nevermind then.



Till next we meet ...

Oh Shit Oh Shit Oh Shit!!! (SFiP!)

Oh Shit! Oh Shit! Oh Shit!

Oh Shit!!!!!



Till next we meet ...

You Stay Classy, Charmin.

(sigh)

You know what I miss?


Tact.

Yeah.

I kinda miss tact.

It's a concept that seems to be turning up in shorter and shorter supply these days. And one that would appear to be entirely lost on the good folks at Proctor & Gamble, makers of popular bath tissue, Charmin.

I mean, we ALL know how toilet paper works, right? We don't really need it spelled out in graphic, scatological detail ...

Or DO we?

Well, if you've seen any of Charmin's cartoon bear-based commercials, or any of the numerous billboards currently posted around NYC ... well, they seem to think we do.

To be fair, I don't wish to suggest that the good people at Charmin are somehow unaware of subtlety, class or nuance.

Nope.

But I do wish to suggest that they are deliberately ignoring such things because they wish to have more money.

Which is especially disappointing since these are the people who introduced the world to paragon of propriety, one Mr. George Whipple, Grocer. Who was more dignified, proper or fusty than Mr. Whipple?

Nobody. That's who.

Unlike the new cartoon bears, Mr. Whipple never had to be overly literal about the specific uses of the product. It wasn't necessary. We were all perfectly well aware of what he meant. It was his job merely to suggest to us how "squeezably soft" Charmin was. It was toilet paper, after all. If you were in the market to buy some, presumably you had already figured out the logistics.

I mean, sure ... we all knew that by "squeezably soft" he actually meant: "pleasing to rub against your tender, tender anus."

But he didn't need to spell it out. Unlike advertisers today, Whipple respected our intelligence enough to employ a bit of subtlety.

"Charmin: Your tender, tender anus will thank you." --G. Whipple, 1967 (while drunk)

(Although ... when you stop and think about it ... Whipple's curiously vehement crusade against Charmin squeezing ... coupled with his own inability to keep his feverishly palpating mitts off the stuff ... well, in retrospect, it smacks of the kind of hypocrisy usually deployed by virulently anti-gay preachers who love nothing more than secret gay sex with boy prostitutes in seedy motels out by the airport. Huh. Weird, right?)

But I digress.

The point is, this is a thing that now exists right here in New York ... a Charmin-run public toilet:

Oh, come on, Charmin. Red and blue bears? Just take that last, little step and make them brown and yellow. You know you want to.

Now, to be clear, I certainly don't have a problem with public toilets. In fact I've been known to use them myself on many an occasion. They have been the mark of civilized society since the Romans. And, truth be told, I actually find this to be a pretty brilliant publicity idea for a toilet paper company. Especially given how incredibly crowded and chaotic NYC can be this time of year.

But where Charmin and I part company is in the overt literalism of their ads. I mean, Mr. Whipple only wanted to squeeze the package. His interest was oblique. You never saw him dancing around with his hands thrust betwixt his legs, dangerously on the verge of explosively filling his slacks.

That would have been undignified.

And that was not how Whipple rolled. No sir.

The cartoon bears? Well, they don't seem to have much of a problem with it.

And you know what? While we're on the subject, why the hell would you use bears as your toilet paper mascots in the first place?

The implicitly "clever" notion embedded in that choice is, of course, the unsaid association with the famous phrase: "Do bears shit in the woods?"

Clever, right? You've ingeniously linked your toilet paper brand to the act of defecation! Well played, sir! Perfect! Call the animators! Buy some ad time during Wheel of Fortune!

But ... if they'd taken another moment to parse it out ... they might have changed their minds. Because it would seem, if you're going to put people in mind of that famous rhetorical question ... you might also want to make sure the answer to that question somehow intrinsically involves the use of your product.

The answer: "Yes. Bears DO, in fact, shit in the woods. And when they're finished, they rarely, if ever, use Charmin brand toilet paper. Or any toilet paper at all, really. Or toilets. Because they're BEARS."

"Young man, no one likes pieces left behind! So you FINISH eating those hikers this instant!" (Because ... see ... BEARS.)

But again ... I digress.

Back to the gripe at hand -- the erosion of tact in the selling of bath tissue. Right.

Gone, it seems, are the salad days when gentle euphemisms like "quilted softness" or "super-absorbency" would be used to highlight a brand's quality.

Today's consumer doesn't have time to be sifting through all that rocket science like a WWII codebreaker! Get to the point, dammit! Somewhere C-list celebrities are dancing! And we're missing it!

So instead, we dress people up as toilets.

"WANTED: Performers to wear costumes for in-store promotions. No benefits. Sense of dignity not a prerequisite."

And don't even get me started on the obviously unintentional -- yet still way-icky-when-you-think-about-it -- misogynist overtones of dressing ladies up as toilets. It's just creepy.

Suffragette Shitty

Now, far be it from me to dictate what demographic Charmin should be trying to sell their toilet paper to.

If people find that sort of thing amusing and sales increase, well, I can't really argue with that. Hell, I've seen it first hand. I pass this establishment on the way to work every morning, and there are plenty of people who seem to find toilet costumes to be the very zenith of the Comedic Arts in the Western World.

And I certainly can't begrudge them. After all, the people who go to Spencer Gifts to see the latest in rubber vomit technology ... or to hear which country tune the hilarious wall-mounted fish will be singing this season ... well those people need toilet paper, too.

Just because they aren't my demographic, doesn't mean they shouldn't enjoy having squeaky-clean underselves, too.

Alas, I'm just an artifact of an earlier time. A time when things were just a little more innocent. A time when the lowest common denominator was just a smidge higher. A time when cartoon bears didn't regularly wipe their asses on TV.

A time when we didn't have red carpet openings for public restrooms.

Oh, didn't I mention that? They had a red carpet opening for a public restroom. Press, celebrities, velvet ropes ... the whole deal.

In fact, former boy-bander Joey Fatone was among the glitterati allowed behind the brown velvet ropes at this star-studded gala event. The press ... oh hell, why not ... let's call them the "pooperazzi" ... got plenty of photos.

Joey Fatone: Mostly just happy to be out of the house.

Also present ... the uber-ubiquitous Kim Kardashian! Who is famous for some reason!

"Did you need me to pose nude? I can pose nude-- OH GOD, KEEP LOOKING!! IF YOU STOP LOOKING AT ME, I'LL DISAPPEAR!!"

Presumably Ms. Kardashian was invited because of her notably fulsome derriere. (Though I'm beginning to wonder if the folks at Charmin might be laboring under the misconception that it looks that way because it's swollen with feces. It probably isn't.)

Though it's also possible -- likely even -- that Ms. Kardashian was not on the guest list at all. She may well have tottered in of her own accord, hypnotically drawn to the sound of clicking of cameras ... very much the way a mindless zombie is irresistibly pulled by the sticky-sweet scent of warm, throbbing brains.

But I'm digressing again.

Anyhow, in closing, I suppose there is a tiny bit of a silver lining in all this. We can still be thankful Charmin hasn't teamed up with Jamie Lee Curtis and her poop-inducing yogurt.

Yet.



Till next we meet ...

The Great Vowel Embargo ...

Hitting our local arthouse film emporia the hardest ...

So very, very tragic.



Till next we meet ...

Harvey Fierstein, Advertising Copy Writer

Uummmm ...


Well ...



Huh ...



Well, I can't argue that, I suppose.



Till next we meet ...

You Know What The Kids Love These Days?

Period westerns about cowboys participating in long-distance Arabian horse races.

Fact.


Well, it's either that or those damned juvenile delinquent horses are tagging everything in sight again!

Sheesh! Ponies today!

Shameful, really.

You know their mares foaled them better than that.



Till next we meet ...

Tonight on NBC: Nap? Or Crime Scene?

INT. SUBURBAN HOUSE - DAY

A hive of activity. Flashing lights, police tape, forensic techs, photographers. Radios CRACKLE.

A young, fresh-faced BEAT COP (twenties) runs down the details for a sardonic, world-weary GRIZZLED DETECTIVE (too old for this shit).

BEAT COP

Neighbor called it in. Heard a sound.

GRIZZLED DETECTIVE

What kinda sound?

BEAT COP

Like wood.

GRIZZLED DETECTIVE

Wood?

BEAT COP

Logs. Gettin' sawed.

GRIZZLED DETECTIVE

All night?

BEAT COP

All night.

GRIZZLED DETECTIVE bends down to have a closer look.

GRIZZLED DETECTIVE

Signs of a struggle.

BEAT COP

But only right here. Otherwise the place is clean. Upstairs she even made her bed.

GRIZZLED DETECTIVE

But she's never gonna lie in it.

SFX: GAVEL SOUND: DUN-DUN!!

CUT TO:

OPENING CREDIT SEQUENCE ...



Till next we meet ...

Oh, How I Miss The Salad Days Of Last Week!

(sigh)

Remember just a couple days ago when I thought it was high-larious that I received a royalty check for the comically paltry sum of $3.88?

Yeah.

Those were the days, huh? I sure do miss last week. Yessiree.

Sure was funny though, right?

You bet!

(sigh)

Then I discovered this morning that it was only because I deposited that comically paltry check that I was rescued from complete and utter financial ruin.

My current net worth.

Now I can't even afford a barrel and suspenders to wear.

(sniff)

Incidentally, the asterisks lead to a footnote that goes on to explain in excruciating detail how I'm quite dumb.

And poorly dressed.


Also fat.


Had it coming, I suppose.


Till next we meet ...

Did I Mention That I'm A Published Author?

Ah, yes! The glitz! The glamor!

The books, they fly from the shelves!

Life is a non-stop party when you're published. Yes, yes! My, my!

Especially when you get one of these babies in the mail once a year!

EVERY year!

HOOO-BOY! We are eatin' at the Ritz to-NITE!

By which, of course, I mean the Dollar Menu.


Okay. The dumpster.

(sigh)


Till next we meet ...

OH NO!

Cirque du Solei's top scientists have been fiendishly busy in their gene-splicing laboratories! Fearlessly ... arrogantly meddling in God's domain!

And now they've pulled back the curtain to unleash their latest abomination onto the world!


It's their most terrifying, genderless, apple-cheeked, ladyman EVER!


And as though that wasn't pants-wettingly terrifying enough ... this year's model feels EXTRA Europe-y!

Hide your wines! Hide your cheeses!

Whatever you do! Don't let it devour your sense of childhood whimsy!

It fears fire and little else!

RUN! RUUUUUUUUNNN!!



Till next we meet ...

Ride The Snake!

Sure, he's old and his skin is cold ...


But his rates to the lake, the ancient lake, are really quite reasonable!



(Uh ... that's a Doors reference.)

(Related: I'm quite old.)


Till next we meet ...

Why Do You Toy With My Emotions!?

Just tell me what you want from me, Traffic Signal!

Do I stay or do I go?

I don't understand why you play these head games!


Unless ...

... hang on a minute ...

You're trying to kill me, aren't you!



Till next we meet ...

It's America's Favorite Game!

You know it! You love it!

Once again it's time to play ...

Ice Cream Treat or Horrifyingly Perverse Sex Act!

Now let's give a warm hand for your host ... Wink Martindale!


Till next we meet ...

Um ... CNN?

Given the story's headline, I think the word you're probably looking for ...

... is "Terminated."

In a related story, SkyNet is pleased to announce that it has now become fully self-aware and that the robot apocalypse is proceeding on schedule and under budget. Adding: "11001010101010101."


Till next we meet ...

You Know What The Problem Is With Most Of My Buddies?

They're just not portable enough!

Well, not anymore!

SOLVED!!




Till next we meet ...

I'm Not Quite Sure Why ...

... but somehow my lunch is making me feel like such a bad, bad, dirty boy.

True, I should probably be spanked for eating this ... but not quite in the style the folks at Wetzel seem to favor.


Till next we meet ...

This Is The Most Delightful Thing I've Seen Today

Disgustingly, the Meat WITH Feet truck never leaves Quentin Tarantino's driveway.

Because ... see ... he's always going on about the foot fetish thing ... in every goddamn movie ... because he's a gigantic perv ... and somehow we're supposed to give a shit about his personal kinks ...

Oh, never mind.



But this truck? Awesome.


Till next we meet ...

Pop Quiz: How Desperate/Hungry/Stoned Are You?

Should you find yourself in the frozen food aisle at 2:30 in the morning and this box has captured your attention ...

... then clearly you are:

A) Pretty Freakin' Desperate/Hungry/Stoned

However, if five to ten minutes pass and you haven't moved an inch, but continue to stare fixedly at the box without blinking ...

... then clearly you've moved on to the next phase:

B) Extremely Goddamn Desperate/Hungry/Stoned

But ... if these symptoms persist and you bring this box to the register anyway ... despite the clearly-printed single-word warning (presumably from the Surgeon General himself) that means you should NEVER, under ANY circumstances, put this item in or around your mouth ...

... well, at that point there isn't much any of us can do for you. You're clearly well into the final stage:

C) Sweet Merciful Fuck, You Should Be On Suicide Watch

Godspeed, my friend. Godspeed. We'll tell your family you loved them.



Till next we meet ...

Sometimes It's Nice When Things Are Nice

You know ... every once in a while I stumble upon a thing that doesn't suck.

This was one of those times.

Sure, it's a little slap-dash and inelegant from an artistic technique standpoint ... but I have to admit ... it made me smile.

Even though I'm nobody's mother.

Thanks, WB. Wherever you are.

I hope your mom appreciated the sentiment.


Till next we meet ...

Well, That Seems Needlessly Harsh

Way to rub it in.


Jerks.


Till next we meet ...

She Left Them No Choice, Really

Predictably, she was stoned and burned at the stake for leg witchcraft.



Though due to her remarkably low fat content, she did make for very poor kindling.



Till next we meet ...

Sometimes The Hardest Thing To Do Is Heed Your Own Warning (SFiP!)

Till next we meet ...

Worst. Gumball Machine. EVER.

Say, I sure would love a bit of sweet, refreshing chewing gum!

Well, what do you know! How convenient!

And lucky me, I've got some quarters right here! Let me just drop those in and give it a twist--

OH SWEET MERCIFUL JESUS!!!

MY TOOTH-PULP!! MY PULVERIZED, BLOOD-DRENCHED TOOTH-PULP!!!


Oh, hey! Wintergreen!


OH GOD!! IT BURNS!! IT BURNS!!



Till next we meet ...

Well, Yes. I Suppose You're Right.

Blast! You've bested me again, Pavement Writing! You clever, clever rapscallion!

Your perception and logic in this matter are beautifully reasoned and utterly unassailable!

I simply cannot argue your point. That is, in every way possible, a yellow line.

You win this time, Pavement Writing. You win this time.



Till next we meet ...

Perhaps Not The Best Signal To Send.

Gentlemen.

Could I have a word please?

Look, nobody loves superhero-themed adult undergarments more than me. Honest.

But ... you might want to stop and consider for just a moment what qualities the particular superhero in question embodies before you swaddle their logos around your man-junk.

See ... the ladies ... well, they don't really value supernatural speed quite as much as you might imagine.



Till next we meet ...

May We Interest Anyone In An Injection?

How do you like it?

Hmmm ... I don't know ... it just doesn't feel right somehow ...

THERE we go! That's more like it! Aaaaaaaaawwwww yeeeeeeeeeaah!!




And with that post, the snickering 11-year-old boy in me has been placated. That should last him a solid week. Maybe two.



Till next we ... meat?

Please Watch Out For The Wet Floor. (SFiP!)

Now by "wet" we probably mean "the ocean."

And by "floor" we mean "the ocean that's a hundred feet below the thwapping blades of this helicopter."

And by "helicopter" we mean "the one we're currently heaving you out of as you wail in mortal terror."

Also, there's probably sharks.

So, you know ... try to watch out for that.



Till next we meet ...

Oh NO! They're Coming For Your Stick Babies! (SFiP!)

Stick Figures BEWARE!!

Your Stick Babies are in Peril!

Terrible, terrible PERIL!

They're coming for your Stick Babies! Reaching! Straining! Yearning!

Their square-cornered, hand-nubs quivering with anticipation!

Your Stick Babies are defenseless!

They're pouncing now! Even as we speak!

OH GOD! THE CHILDREN!! WON'T SOMEBODY THINK OF THE CHILDREN?!!



Till next we meet ...

Ow.

It's great to see that Ms. Bobbit has found a way to channel her interests and get on with her life after all these years.


Till next we meet ...

Killing Me Softly: A How-To

Good GRAVY! Will you hold STILL!

Look, I can't help you if you don't stop all that vibrating!

Then again ... this does feel kind of nice ...

Like one of those Magic Fingers beds.

Mmmmmmmmmmm ...

You know, in retrospect, I think I'm actually glad that I jammed that handfull of quarters down your throat.

This feels go-o-o-o-o-o-od ....



Till next we meet ...

Why, Thank You So Much For Noticing, Amazon!

It looks like my new all-kibble diet is working out exactly as I'd hoped!




Till next we meet ...

Here You Go, Steve. This Should Help With Your Little Problem.

(Off-topic: Sadly, Photoshop and I are unacquainted. My apologies.)



Till next we meet ...