There’s one terrible thing about obsessive consumption of playoff basketball, and that is the commercials. The games are live, and you must watch them as such to be an objectively good fan(atic), and so those commercials keep on coming; the ad buys are already made and whatever awful, no-good, obnoxious (and therefore, in the twisted world of Commerce, good) idea some executive had months ago beats itself into your brain with alacrity. With so many games coming over so many weeks, there will be new ads popping up from time to time, but the worst offenders are already here to stay.
In the Mayday spirit, let’s register our displeasure with late capitalism as expressed through the spectacle that is TNT with that most subversive of activities, a Power (To Drive You Insane) Rankings.
We already discussed Jimmy Johnson’s private parts, but the Pompadour Cowboy doesn’t appear to be in heavy rotation this May, unlike the new up-and-comer in the credit score game: Credit Karma. I suppose that sites like this make money off traffic or something, or from the poor saps who need higher-test credit reports for which they must pay (who knows-I only take payment in maple syrup pegged currencies); however it works, they badly want you to know they exist. Credit Karma doesn’t have a band of scruffy 20somethings screaming a ditty at me from a pirate ship yet, so they (so far) get a pass as being only annoying through stick-to-itiveness.
Time To Drink
It’s true: Our macrobrewers are the cultural avant-garde. Corona deduced far before the rest of us that people liked beaches, and so they continue to bathe us in the divine knowledge that, with Corona and a lime, anywhere you go will be as a beach, but now, they figure, you don’t even have go more than a mile away to get un-ordinary these days, such is the transformative power of their Mexican brew.
Eat Work Gym Shower CORONA LIGHT.
And Heineken and Bacardi continue spreading the gospel that when we consume alcohol in a well-branded way, we become attractive as Don Draper, except with less work and emotional ambiguity and more women and dancing in an amalgam of Twenties Weimar Germany and Fifties Havana. Stale pale lager and $12 rum is a mystical cocktail, too subtle for the unattractive whiskey and Bud drinkers that live somewhere far away from your 400 square foot whitewalled coastal city apartment.
Yet the runaway winner for innovation in alcohol consumption this spring is Miller Lite. The world was asking what they’d do to follow up on the groundbreaking VORTEX system-because you couldn’t get that beer out of the bottle before-and SABMillerCoors has delivered, with the Punch Top Can.
There were the Dark Ages, when only stadium vendors and fat frat boys who had cracked the 5,000 Gallon Mark knew how to stab a disposable aluminum can for a quick pour, and then 2012 came, and we were all freed from tasting Miller Lite.
Run Your Car Off A Ledge
By now we all know Flo the insurance lady, who is aiming for that demographic that finds the dotty aunt on British sitcoms sexy and/or hilarious, and that lizard, but now Geico’s stepped it up just in time for a sea change in human consciousness. Warren Buffett spent most of 2010 in Australia, exhorting Owsley Stanley to cross him some diamond with pearl, and the result is a Hawaiian Punch-looking likker that blows Kesey’s Orange Sunshine out of the cosmic waters.
36 hours later, you’ve insured your home, car, motorcycle, all the vinyl and East Indian spices in your niece’s apartment, every Dairy Queen in Iowa, and a goat painted Day-Glo orange, which won’t stop following you across this endless mini-golf green, which would be a fine place to play if the Sphinx there would just spit out your ball.
A Comment On Network Self-Promotion
The nice thing about TNT/TBS having reliably terrible original programming is that if you do have a friend who adores one of their shows (for we all have our guilty pleasures), after watching the NBA/MLB playoffs you’ll know every joke/plot-point the series has on offer, and then will be able to humor your friend with a knowing chuckle/nod when s/he brings up that show in conversation. This also applies to the new Adam Sandler/Andy Samburglar movie that’s getting pushed by Shaq & Chuck.
Weep And Gnash, For Wasted Time
AT&T’s “OMG I KNEW THAT BEFORE YOU” series of commercials informing us just how not crappier than Verizon Mama Bell’s heir-in-name-only wireless service is need little further explication as a piece of Instant Internet Culture criticism. Please don’t rush me in my own rethinking of the possible AT&T, please; it’s a daily process that doesn’t need the added information that Bob woke up late and was then anxious he’d miss the American Airlines presentation, and then he ate some chocolate cake.
Yet the AT&T/Nokia commercial pushing whatever new phone du jour achieves a blatancy in This=Sex marketing that even our preceding booze purveyors can’t match.
Yes, Winnie Cooper lookalike, I have so many friends. Look how strong my thumbs be!
Lock The Gun Cabinet And Throw Away The Key
I hate you so much Dorito Taco, already, and only one series is through Game Three. It’s not only because you don’t come in Cool Ranch. Nor is my fury attributable to the memories you stir of a time when, perhaps, you could have appealed to my grossest senses-in the darkest hours of the soul’s night-and how since then my digestive system has grown old in a way that would not allow you safe passage. Nor did I resent until right now that PepsiCo isn’t just running this far superior commercial:
No, I merely resent your sources, culled from people’s online mutterings, attached to attractive faces, poorly worded, with no disclaimer that the reviewer might be working in an ironic vein, which is always possible among the kiddos who can’t velcro their L.A. Gears without distancing themselves from the action.
There’s my vote, if I had one, for the playoff ad that needs freakin’ so bombed out of its delicious French unicorn existence, hells to the yeah.