In the Name of Science
Dove Body Wash. In last week's list I ranted against the annoying ad campaign by LasVegas.com which would have us believe that there is a dude running around with the legal name of Las Vegasdotcom who is constantly being mistaken for the website. This week's commercial which caused the moron meter to explode came from the good people at Dove, who attempt to raise awareness for their over-priced liquid soap by running an ad showing a bevy of hot women meeting at a scientific laboratory that the Dove Corps of Engineers works out of and then dip samples of "test paper"into competing brands, all of which react to the broadsheet like sulfuric acid dissolving away a plate of soft cheeses. All except for Dove, which leaves the dainty pink tissue so pristine that you could still wipe your ass with it after conducting the experiments. This commercial causes my head to explode every time I view it; not because of my feelings about the quality of Dove Body Wash, which (since I usually wash myself with a Brillo pad and a garden hose) I have no experience with, but because of how we are supposed to accept how these hot chicks are dolled up for the commercial. When they walk into the test area to dip the tissues in the swill, they appear to be naked except for thin white terry-cloth robes which they inexplicably enter the room wearing.
I get the idea is that we're supposed to subliminally assume they've just gotten out of the shower after luxuriating their bodies with magical Dove Body Wash, but the reality is that all they're doing is marching into a room to dunk some pink toilet paper samples into soap. Imagine the sleazy ad man who had just gotten the ladies to sign their release forms then mopping the sweat from his face and saying "now before we start shooting, you're going to all strip naked and then put on some thin white robes. Harry, start passing out the Lady Bics."None of the women in the commercial seem even mildly confused why they all needed to be practically nude in order to watch some pink tissue paper dissolve in liquid soap; in fact they all seem so giddy with excitement that all they want to do is extend their silky smooth forearms (courtesy of Dove Body Wash, of course) to allow each other to cop a feel despite the fact that under most circumstances, women tend to be a tad self-conscious standing buck naked in front of each other wearing nothing but a cheap muumuu from Wal-Mart. If hot chicks were really so gullible that all a guy needs to do to get them to strip down to nothing but negligees is come up with an old video camera and a storage space with a few beakers and a Tesla Coil and say he's a Madison Avenue hack casting a commercial, I'm going to ask Mara Marini to star in an ad I'm shooting where she has to watch paint dry for a few hours at the Jonny® Labs. She'll need to wear a thong bikini while she's doing it, but it's all in the name of science.
Speaking of Mara Marini, Enemies List favorite Mara Marini who I left off the list last week and as a result, nobody so much as looked at the goddamned thing. Ms. Marini posted on her Facebook wall a sexy yet demure photo of herself clad in a yellow tee-shirt against a sky-blue background being lovingly affectionate to her dog Monroe. I was so captured by the teasing innocence of the photo that I posed for one in similar attire and setting holding my beloved Pug Winston. But far from achieving the heart and loin-warming effect that Ms. Marini's did, mine looks like Winston and I are about to be bust in on by the canine version of To Catch a Predator. I'm not sure why my photo is so disturbing compared to the one of Ms. Marini but after a significant amount of study, I've determined that it is all about the attitude of the dogs. Monroe appears to be in positive bliss at the attentions of her Mommy, even though her kisses will result in Monroe being covered in Lancome L'Absolu Rouge in Voile de Rose lipstick that will require an afternoon at the doggy spa to fully get out. Winston, on the other hand, appears to be angst-ridden at the idea of being held so close by his loving Daddy and seems to be worried that the lipstick will be inserted in a more invasive area that the groomers will have to use an extra-large Q-Tip and some tweezers to clean out. I can assure any animal rights groups who are concerned at seeing this photo that I have a strictly hands-off policy towards Winston's cornhole and the only time that I have ever got near it was when he ate some bubble gum out of the trash and I had to clip away some errant Bazooka Joe when he farted. What's more, despite rumors to the contrary I do not consider Winston to be erotically stimulating in the slightest and anyone who assumes that is the nature of our relationship is just sick. Winston's job is to catch the attention of human women when we go for walks so that I can ensnare them in conversation, seduce them and ultimately bed them. Then, Winston's only job is to make the ladies feel self-consciously uncomfortable as he stares at them from the corner of the bedroom while I am doing unspeakable things to their cornholes. Let me tell you, that's hot.
My high school chum Reese Timm and smokin' hot annoying yenta Stephanie Fredricks. When Mr. Timm saw the photo in the listing above, he implored he not to try and replicate myself in Ms. Fredricks' profile photo, a parody of the logo for the short-lived cable dramady Diary of a Call Girl that shows her flirtatiously sitting in an over-sized martini glass. Never one to allow a gauntlet to be thrown at my feet without picking it up and sniffing it for a whiff of finger crevice cheese, I logged onto Photoshop and crapped out the image you see on the left. Greatly to my surprise, the illustration prompted an avalanche of negative responses, notably from Ms. Fredricks herself who reposted it on her own wall with the comment "As you see, not everyone is meant for the martini glass."What Ms. Fredricks didn't realize was that it could have been far worse because in the original version I made of the picture, Winston was seated in the right side of the frame. That doesn't sound like much except that the positioning made it look like I was preparing to play a perverse scatological scenario with my little Pug. I'm under enough suspicion just for holding him while wearing a yellow tee-shirt and standing against a blue wall. If I start posting shizer porn starring us on the Internet, the authorities might get involved.
Speaking of my beloved Pug Winston, my beloved Pug Winston. I found myself out of food the other night (save for the staples of my diet: coffee, Ambien and vodka - the three of which allow me to wake up, fall asleep, and cope with the nightmares that take place between), so I trotted over to the hotdog stand on my corner called Happy Dog to pick up some teriyaki chicken (the eatery is owned by a sweet Asian family who make tasty Japanese food in addition to the deliciously mustard-covered crap that the place is famous for) and eat it on the short walk home. I walked in the door and plopped myself on the sofa next to Winston to finish the feast not realizing that I had spilled a goodly amount on my shirt. Winston normally shows polite restraint while I'm eating on the couch next to him, always displaying keen interest in my food but never trying to take it for himself. In this isolated instance, the sauce which I had accidentally gotten on my clothes had turned me in his mind into teriyaki Jonny, and he leapt on me and not only began licking at my shirt but clawing at it like it was the peel of a ripe banana and he wanted to get to the sweet fruit beneath. I pulled him off me and he finally calmed down, but not before I had a W-shaped scratch in my chest as if he was Zorro and I was the evil governor just arrived from Spain who planned to enslave the local villagers. The scratch has since healed and the incident hasn't been repeated, but I intend to keep my distance from Winston the next time I eat teriyaki chicken. When you're enjoying Japanese food, the last thing you want to see is a crazed Pug wearing a black mask and a gaucho hat lunging at you to carve his initial in your chest. It not only diminishes the pleasure of the meal, but the pain from your injury makes it hard to focus on enslaving the villagers.
U.S.S. Pinafore star Misha Bouvion, whom I saw perform Shakespeare's epic poem Venus and Adonis as a one-woman show last week. As an actor who has played Shakespearean roles ranging from Hamlet and Malvolio to the mysterious mute in Romeo and Juliet who keeps the streets of Verona safe without saying a single word just by carrying his spear, I have always considered all of my performances in the Bard's work to be a one-man show regardless of how many actors were sharing the stage with me. This inevitably left audiences, critics and the rest of the cast violently hostile towards me, so for Ms. Bouvion to fashion a performance piece from a Shakespearean work that everybody thinks of as a one-actor show work really pisses me off. Add to that the fact that she performs the thing brilliantly (something that nobody ever said about my performances of Hamlet or Malvolio) and I'm even more annoyed by her. Ms. Bouvion will be starring in Venus and Adonis until May 11, after which I hope that she will return to Shakespearean roles that alienate her from other actors because they have to stand around on aching feet while she wears a crown and gets the perk of being allowed to sit on the only chair in the entire kingdom. Tickets are available here on a pay-what-you-can basis.