Taste the Wha?

Ok, so this post idea dates back to drunken summer nights on Holt's couch watching the television magnificently mounted in the corner of the ceiling, but I find it still holds relevance.

Everyone knows when it comes to the hip shoe consumers that make up so much of the world's candy-buying demographic, weird is the that's hot of the late thousand-ands. This must be why Skittles decided to make it the defining characteristic of their latest ad game. In researching their little "world wide web site" which in fact takes the form of a "blog," I have discovered that their new fucked-up and totally weird campaign has its crazy ass balls out and swinging. The spawn of my beloved Holt's-couch ad is proudly displayed. It encourages watchers to "race the rainbow" after engaging in a weird skit where two people dressed as rats torture each other with treadmills and bags of candy on the ends of fishing lines. I can only assume this is meant to capitalize on the hipster's lonely and twisted sexuality.

But let's reach back, back, back into the past:

This is the ad I originally saw. Believe it or not, the team over at Skittles selected this little gem for their Superbowl spot. That's right, at one of the last remaining events designed to inspire a sincere sense of ambition in underprivileged youth, these corporate sugar-pushers have used the delicacy of those private long-shot hopes to sell their precious rainbow. "Harvest the rainbow." If I may be so blunt, wha? This sad old grandma with her watery eyeliner and bad dye job is using the last remaining ounce of strength in her velour-encrusted shaky little arms to lug a wheelbarrow full of what I can only assume is symbolically her challenged son's Ritalin which she rakes up while distracting the poor kid with tickling? No, Skittles! This is not the message you want to send! Do not encourage the old fogies gnawing on hard candy as a substitute for Prozac--or perhaps as a tactic in order to appear harmless and endearing, not to mention fun-loving...old man Jenkins always has a few extra caramels for the kids.

That's it, I've got it! Oh Skittles, I've sorely misinterpreted you. I mistook your attempt to corner the burgeoning pedophile demographic as an attempt to wrangle the hipster market! Silly, ever-narcissistic me! Oh well, potato, po-tah-to.

AMY

P.S. I also may have entered this blog in some sort of contest while I was on that Skittles website? Ah, internet, you truly are the Road Runner of our generation. And I will always, always be your Wile E. Coyote.

omigod... SHOES!

Okay, so this post isn't actually about that hilariously annoying in a ha-ha-ha-please-let-this-stop kind of way youtube classic.

Although I have suspicions that when the "OMG, Shoes" video went viral it may have spawned more than we had foreseen in the realm of shoe pastiche. New Media classes everywhere have been completely underestimating how absolutely sick a viral video can make culture. Sick, people.

Because kids these days have been bit by the ugly shoe bug. I duly noted a couple of autumns back how "ugly" was the new "sexy" in footwear. Old Doc Martens, weird brown lace ups, or as my sister had, shoes that you might find on a medieval movie set. If you didn't own any, then fuck you. I raided many a thrift shop, ready to claw my way to the ugliest, brownest, cheapest pair.

For a group that's rah-rah-rahing all over the place about "sustainability", the hipster lifestyle is so freaking unsustainable that I may as well be eating a Meat Lovers' Pizza every day. You don't know that I haven't been.

Let's face it. The shoes were already fucked when I bought them. I think I made the holes work pretty well with my holey jacket (bought under similar circumstances) and skinny jeans. At least that's how my roommate assured me. But there's only so many rainy October nights when you can laugh off your freezing, soaking feet before the heel is entirely worn down and you accidentally step on a shard of glass. Nobody's laughing then.

So I'm proud to say that I, being two steps ahead of even the most fashionable fool at all times, have reached the next level in shoe irony. My shoes are so old and ugly they don't even have soles anymore. Yes, the sustainable lifestyle has reduced me to wearing (a) the neon sneakers I wore in grade 10 and (b) other bizarre boots I have purchased in various foreign countries but never been able to find an occasion for.

Fuck you, hipsters. Eat my neon dust.

Why Cats Need Meat and You Don't, You Can't Taste Meat and You Shouldn't Eat Muscles Just Because You Have Them

Advertisements for Pizza Hut’s Meat Lovers'® Pizza, Arby’s Super Roast Beef Sandwich®, Wendy’s Buffalo Crispy Chicken®, and McDonalds Double Quarter Pounder® could lead us to believe that "the meat" is the main attraction. However, it’s not the slices of tasteless brown beef hidden in the center of the Arby’s sandwich that people want—instead, they salivate over the "green leaf lettuce and ripe tomatoes, all topped with a zesty red sauce on a toasty sesame bun."

Enjoying August?

From "The Onion":

According to Kivens, the discovery has prompted researchers to explore the possibility that a variety of phenomena accompanying the heat wave could also be linked to the star, including taller grass, hot car seats, red skin burns, and sweating "even when one has just been standing there and hasn't been running around or anything."

Click for full article.

Optometry (?) - The Most Fucked-Up of All Businesses

I hate going to the doctor.

And I hate going shopping (mostly the choice-making part).

Obtaining a new pair of glasses for a woefully bookwormy young woman with fashion tastes that tend toward the bag-lady-esque combines a multitude of anxieties.

Sure, the little tests are pretty fun. I like naming letters!

Then it happens. They give you a prescription: to go shopping. For an accessory you must incorporate into everyday wear. That you can't lose. Or fling on the bed/couch/floor/stove. Because you can't break it. Because without it, you can't freakin' see.

Thank you optometry (?), for combining the discomfort of your average visit to the neighbourhood clinic with the time commitment and hassle of facial accessorizing.

AMY

The Maxi Dress

In recent months there has been an exciting new development in the fashion world: the revival of the maxi dress. Though the name of the garment may conjure up some unfortunate associations, the real downfall of the maxi dress is that it has brought on a slew of idiotic magazine articles about how "classic" you'll look in this dress.

C'mon people. If you put your pea-size brains to use, you would see why the maxi dress is the nouveau utility belt. Seriously, they should have these things next to the life jackets in airplanes.

So without further ado, here are eight reasons why I love the maxi dress:

1. The wearer does not have to worry about closing her* legs at social gatherings, and will have the peace of mind to tend to more important matters.

2. The maxi dress provides the wearer with a built-in carryall, should she wish to bring an extra liquor bottle with her for emergencies.

3. As maxi dresses are often either black or patterned, the wearer may spill her drink at will and go unnoticed by other guests.

4. At the inevitable point in the late hours of the evening when the wearer decides that she is capable of jumping extreme distances – say, from the balcony to the pavement below – the maxi dress will act as a parachute and guide the wearer gently to safety.

5. The maxi dress will make such a splash at social gatherings that the wearer will often be confronted by guests who wish to borrow said maxi dress. Should this situation arise, the maxi dress will invest the wearer with the confidence to rightfully defend her ownership. For example, she will now have the strength to utter, “BITCH THE PARACHUTE IS MINE!”

6. Similar to reason number two, when the wearer passes out on the couch (due to being in an unfit state to descend the stairs to her bedroom), she need not worry about the view she may be exposing unbeknownst to passersby of the living room.

7. The next morning, the wearer may continue to wear her maxi dress to the diner, the park, the drugstore, and anywhere else on her hangover pilgrimage, and continue to receive compliments from strangers on the street. The maxi dress is the ultimate day-to-night dress.

8. In the event that the wearer committed a so-called “party fowl” the previous night and is now being subjected to disdainful silence from her roommates, the wearer will no longer need the non-believers – only her precious, precious maxi dress.


*Obviously I realize that a guy can wear a maxi dress too, and in fact, I encourage it. I bet the billowing fabric feels awesome.

JULIA

Want To Hear an Uplifting Story? Actually, No. Now Shut Up.

Just when you thought the constant barrage of advertisements we face in our daily lives couldn't get any more gruelling, somebody had to come up with peopleforgood.ca. I feel bad enough about myself already. Every day on my way to work I'm reminded that I'm average to quirky at best on the attractiveness scale, I can't buy expensive things i.e. achieve respect/happiness, my career is going nowhere, I'm hungry (for gut-busting junk food) and I may even need psychological help or possibly down the line, certain men's health products.

So as I zoom through the rat race, clutching my plastic bag of day-old pre-made sushi and a travel mug and trying desperately not to bash people with my purse while I crane my neck to check out my 9 AM reflection in the subway window, the pressures that convene on me, flickering overhead, are best left ignored.

But these are a little difficult. They're brightly coloured and usually begin with white text and then transition to smaller black text, which is frankly infuriating. The only thing worse than an ad that instantly annoys you is one which exploits human curiosity allowing the annoyance to drag out. I mean I "WANT TO HEAR AN UPLIFTING STORY." But I don't want it to go "A GUY LETS EVERYONE ON THE BUS BEFORE HIM. THE END." What?? You mean that old lady I discreetly shoved past in order to get to this crucial intersection probably didn't appreciate that?? You mean she didn't feel uplifted? Shit!

It's an admirable position, I'll admit, but we all know how much we hate do-gooders, especially when they rub it in. Nothing makes you feel worse about that whole block of cheese you ate while watching four solid hours of TV in a row than the person who tells you all about her overnight charity run while nibbling carrot sticks. And once we know that story, it makes us all the more eager to find out about the forty-five minutes she's about to spend in her cubicle texting and watching funny dog videos.

The idea behind all this is that by being "good" we're somehow going to make everyone feel "good," or at least ourselves. There is a delightfully selfish bent to that latter cause which I feel is the wondrous root of all human compassion. Unfortunately after taking one look at the "Good Ideas" section of the website, I have to say their plan is doomed to fail:

1. Mow your neighbour's lawn
2. Instead of an email, send a handwritten note.
3. Call your mother
4. Bring home flowers.
5. Make cookies for your neighbours
6. Do a chore, even if it's not your turn.
7. Give up the remote
8. Make breakfast for the household
9. Go say hello to your neighbour.
10. Shovel an elderly person's driveway.

Pretty much all of these things are going to make me feel worse, not to mention nothing but nothing gets me started like inconsistent punctuation, so they're already halfway to hell in my books. Good luck, people.

Not.

AMY