Friday, October 31, 2003
So you want to know what happened to Miss Independent?
They changed the billboard on northbound South Lake Dr. recently. I run that strip just about every day so I notice these things. It used to be a big, smiling, fat guy who was supposed to represent "real" -- real, meaning TDS Metrocom is a real phone alternative because they got big, ugly guys like this who do work for them. Whether or not this is just an ad campaign, or if TDS simply subcontracts out to SBC like most other small-time phone alternatives . . . I don't know. Or care. All I know is big, fat guy's been replaced by this:
"i'm thinkin' italian"
Underneath this fun-fonted slogan and to the left is a picture of a chicken parmesan sandwich -- ah, yes, the food of romance. The McDonald's logo is prominently, if not obtrusively, shown below. And to the right, is this beautiful young woman. She is holding her trendy cell phone, as if she's calling YOU, guys. Her hair is pulled back so the lighting fully reveals her unblemished skin. And she stares at me -- directly at me all the while I pass her -- with that expectant gleam in her eyes, as if I'M the one she's called. As if she's abridged her speech from "thinking" to "thinkin'" just for ME because she's in a FUN mood, and she just can't wait for me to bring home some lusty, romantic McDonald's. And this, according to the Mickey-D's folks, is for every guy who passes by. This is for you! She is seated below the camera, you see, as if she is there before you, on her knees, begging . . . . If only you'll bring home that McDonald's chicken parmesan sandwich for her, she'll unzip . . . .
"OK, you took it too far, now, Will. It's just a silly advertisement, and there you go, taking it too far -- like you do! You do! You take things too far. You read too much into things. It's just a stupid ad, why do write about this stuff?"
Well, it's my web log, and I'll cry if I want to.
See, there's a lot of things I don't know about. I could not explain to an elementary science class why the sky is blue. After nearly fourteen months of marriage, I do not understand my wife's love of shoes. I do not know which cools faster -- lava or magma -- or why. I don't understand either major political party, or anyone who vehemently supports them. I do not understand Marxists. I know nothing about oil painting. Cars? Ha! My chances of effectively changing a tire stand at about 50%. Without the owner's manual? 10%. Technology? Ha-HA! Trained monkeys could write a program before I could. I love reading maps, but blind men get lost less often. Accounting, physics, sociology, geology, endocrinology -- all these things are great mysteries to me.
But I do know this:
There is not a single woman on this great earth of ours who will:
A.) get THAT excited around
B.) perform sexual favors upon
C.) think highly of
D.) (choose all of the above)
ANY guy who brings her McDonald's for dinner.
Speaking for my former life, when precious few women paid me any attention, as well as for all my comrades who still struggle to find meaningful companionship in a world of fast-food chicken parmesan, I say: Fuck you, McDonald's. Take your crappy chicken parmesan sandwich, your pretty girl, her cute smile, and her Goddamned cell phone . . . and shove it.
"i'm thinkin' italian"
Underneath this fun-fonted slogan and to the left is a picture of a chicken parmesan sandwich -- ah, yes, the food of romance. The McDonald's logo is prominently, if not obtrusively, shown below. And to the right, is this beautiful young woman. She is holding her trendy cell phone, as if she's calling YOU, guys. Her hair is pulled back so the lighting fully reveals her unblemished skin. And she stares at me -- directly at me all the while I pass her -- with that expectant gleam in her eyes, as if I'M the one she's called. As if she's abridged her speech from "thinking" to "thinkin'" just for ME because she's in a FUN mood, and she just can't wait for me to bring home some lusty, romantic McDonald's. And this, according to the Mickey-D's folks, is for every guy who passes by. This is for you! She is seated below the camera, you see, as if she is there before you, on her knees, begging . . . . If only you'll bring home that McDonald's chicken parmesan sandwich for her, she'll unzip . . . .
"OK, you took it too far, now, Will. It's just a silly advertisement, and there you go, taking it too far -- like you do! You do! You take things too far. You read too much into things. It's just a stupid ad, why do write about this stuff?"
Well, it's my web log, and I'll cry if I want to.
See, there's a lot of things I don't know about. I could not explain to an elementary science class why the sky is blue. After nearly fourteen months of marriage, I do not understand my wife's love of shoes. I do not know which cools faster -- lava or magma -- or why. I don't understand either major political party, or anyone who vehemently supports them. I do not understand Marxists. I know nothing about oil painting. Cars? Ha! My chances of effectively changing a tire stand at about 50%. Without the owner's manual? 10%. Technology? Ha-HA! Trained monkeys could write a program before I could. I love reading maps, but blind men get lost less often. Accounting, physics, sociology, geology, endocrinology -- all these things are great mysteries to me.
But I do know this:
There is not a single woman on this great earth of ours who will:
A.) get THAT excited around
B.) perform sexual favors upon
C.) think highly of
D.) (choose all of the above)
ANY guy who brings her McDonald's for dinner.
Speaking for my former life, when precious few women paid me any attention, as well as for all my comrades who still struggle to find meaningful companionship in a world of fast-food chicken parmesan, I say: Fuck you, McDonald's. Take your crappy chicken parmesan sandwich, your pretty girl, her cute smile, and her Goddamned cell phone . . . and shove it.
