The 2012 London Olympic Games just revealed their official mascots and they are as misguided as The Office'sDavid Brent.
From the country that gave us, in the words of Hugh Grant’s prime minister in Love Actually, “Shakespeare, Churchill, the Beatles, Sean Connery, Harry Potter. David Beckham's right foot. David Beckham's left foot, come to that,” I expected more. I expected something other than the mutant babies of some Teletubby inbreeding.
One critic called them computerized Smurfs for the iPhone generation. That’s an insult to Papa Smurf and the rest of Smurf village, but I will admit that the mascots’ giant eyes do look like a trackpad or webcam. Gargamel wouldn’t stalk these pansy-assed iShmoos if you paid him.
Named Wenlock and Mandeville, because apparently these mascots need another reason for a serious beating, the two mascots join an already silly group that includes a humanized snowball, ice cube, and snowflake from the ’06 Turin Winter Olympics; a cubist Catalan Sheepdog from the ’92 Barcelona Summer Olympics; and Sondre, a troll amputee from the ’94 Lillehammer Winter Paraolympics. Here’s an idea: instead of designing by focus group and political correctness, kick the mascots to the curb and celebrate the city and the athletes who will be gathering to compete instead. Or just use David Beckham’s right foot.
I don’t know about other plebians, but I like my monarch to be regal, a bit stately even. I want them to sit on a throne, not an electric bull. I want them to issue edicts, not throw a Frisbee or work the pole. He's behaving more like the Hamburglar than a to-the-strip mall-born Burger King.
This crowned creepshow slinks around, focusing on silly shenanigans instead of smacking down insurgents and knighting rock stars like a proper king. He’s a royal pain in the ass and gives me a whopper of a stomach ache. I’d punch him in the face, but I’m pretty sure I’d hurt myself, what with the shiny, happy plastic that is his head.
I don't like ’em and I don't want to see them, on people or on animated bears. Frankly, dingleberries irk my shit. If this baby bear is smart enough to be potty trained, he's smart enough to lose the scat and the TP wads hanging from his bear hair. If the little Mensa member can't take care of business, I think the only choice is to wax the bear's bum until it's completely bare.
Doode, I already know you’re sporting tats on your arms…and abs…and shoulders (not to mention a spray tan) under that tattooed tee. You don’t need to add another layer of ink blots.
Jon Gosselin used to be the company’s poster douche but his position is being seriously threatened by The Situation and Jersey Shore’s other resident goombahs. When they pull on a studded Christian Audigier abomination to go out creeping, it flat-out creeps me out. It’s as if a dye pack of lameness exploded all over them as they left the surf shop.
Attention, oily bohunks! Wearing Ed Hardy doesn’t wipe out a paste-eating past. Pulling on a tattooed trucker cap is a low-forehead’s sad attempt to be cool. It’s more “tattoo ewwww!” than Tattoo You.
On the bright side, there’s an upshot to all this crap; the garments act as makeshift cotton billboards announcing a tool has just entered the workshop. And they provide lots of targets for my fists.
Call me a cold-hearted childless bitch, but I don’t want to see a 18-month old zipping around on roller skates when I’ve never figured out how to skate backwards (which, lemme tell you, really put a dent in my 7th grade social life). I don’t want to see a sugar-filled gang of CGI diapered gang members setting old scores through the power of breakdancing. I don’t want to see all the single babies putting their hands up, dancing in unison holding onto their Cabbage Patch Kids when I can’t do a decent cabbage patch.
The dancing baby on Ally McBeal was enough to put me into the fetal position; you can only imagine what a fleet of toddlers is doing to my delicate emotional state. It’s just not right. They're not right. Seriously, they all look a little off in the face, which gives me the willies. Is it just me, or do they all look like they've had work done?
I can’t really punch the babies, animated or no, so I am just going to take away their roller skates and dancing shoes and herd them into a giant pack ’n’ play. The time has come for a timeout.
Hubris has been around since the dawn of man (Icarus, anyone?) but certain corporations and organizations are taking it to a whole new level by sponsoring ludicrous things. And Donald Trump isn’t even involved.
For instance, Intel is a proud sponsor of tomorrow. It seriously takes a pair to lay claim on the future. And who’s hiring Intel as a sponsor? God? I would have figured He’d have more on His to-do list than to solicit sponsorship for what is generally regarded as a fait accompli. As the official sponsor of birthdays, the American Cancer Society better pony up an ice cream cake and a card come June 29. And every time I have a bright idea, I have to remember to thank Mutual of Omaha (or Oprah, depending on which side of the lawsuit you fall) for my "aha!" moment.
Don't get me wrong: I’m not against corporate sponsorship, but let’s make it somewhere in the neighborhood of appropriate. Jose Cuervo, I think it only fitting that you become the official sponsor of the walk of shame. Nordstrom, I dub thee the sponsor of my overdrawn checking account. McDonalds, I think it’s fair to say that you’re the proud sponsor of my high cholesterol. Hummer, lay down some coin and sponsor small penises everywhere.
And if anyone knows someone in corporate at Everlast or Hawaiian Punch, send them my way. Things I Want to Punch in the Face is looking for sponsorship. If the 2012 apocalypse can nab a sponsor, there's no reason I can't.
(The inspiration for this post came from Jessica. Thanks!)
Your jingles may be annoyingly catchy, but the dude singing them is just plain annoying. If I have to see your shaggy mop kicking it at a Ren Faire or entertaining the early birds at a seafood restaurant one more time, I’m going to drive my fist so far into your face that you’re going to be pushed back a hundred or so points on your crap-ass credit report.
And here’s a thought: maybe you’re living in your in-laws’ basement, not because your dream girl had bad credit, but because your emo band can’t get a gig. Put down your guitar, lose the white man’s overbite, and stop being a whiny cautionary tale. Martyrdom never made anyone serious coin.
Apparently, the Geico caveman is working up toward a full-on docudrama. It started innocently enough: I liked the commercial in the airport. No dialogue, just Röyksopp and a moving walkway.
Then he moved into the therapist’s office. There wasn’t much room on the couch, since he was sharing it with a massive chip on his shoulder. The discomfort was palpable.
Now we’ve entered full-on Ben Stiller territory. In Fright at the Museum, Brow Ridge is a docent at the Museum of Natural History, leading a group of Greek system rejects who start circling him like they’re re-enacting a scene from “The Lottery” (that short story by Shirley Jackson we all had to read in high school). If those stones in the diorama weren’t papier mâché, I’d be worried for the dude’s survival. Sure, Clan of the Cave Bear bags the babe in the end but, like a Ben Stiller movie, the payoff never equals the shit he had to eat during the previous 89 minutes.
Cro-Gagnon gets to show his acting chops in this 3-minute commercial…well, as much as he can show under all that fur. He is a long-suffering martyr. He tries on bemusement. Here we go: he’s officially annoyed! He transitions into supercilious before finally settling on bitter. Are these the five stage of caveman grief? And why do I need bear witness?
If I wanted to see bitter, I’d look in the mirror…or re-read these blog posts. It’s time to throw him into a crate and ship him back to Olduvai Gorge. Maybe the missing link should stay lost.
(And does anyone else think that the caveman bears some resemblance to Val Kilmer?)
As someone who prides herself on making kick-ass baked beans (using drained Bush’s beans as a starter ingredient), these commercials chap my cookout hide. I have two issues.
Duke seems to think this is a recipe worth stealing. Whether it’s homestyle or country style, these beans are just filler food. Add a pound of brown sugar, slow cook them for a few hours, and then, we can talk.
Duke can’t seem to steal the secret family recipe from apparent Mensa member Jay Bush. The dog can talk, for fuck's sake, but he can't get his paws on the recipe. Even masquerading as the furry ghost of Grandma Bush, the Golden Retreiver can’t seem to pull one over on Jay, even when the dude is distracted by his precious fart pot of beans. The pooch can build a secret lair, complete with a security system, but he can't figure out the ingredients in the can? They are listed on the label! Come on, Duke, stop farting around and put your breeding to good use. Spill the beans—literally. Sweep the leg and knock that pot off the stove and onto Jay. While he’s busy eating himself out of his protein puddle, raid the recipe box, grab your chew toy, and hightail it out of town. Head toward Boston where you can make some mad money pawning off the recipe card to some unwitting chowderhead.
(This idea came to me as a late-night text from my pal Jessica, who wrote "Dodo could steal that recipe. Andale." Word.)
Why the hell do people put bumper stickers all over their cars advertising brands and places, for example, the douchebag with Black Diamond, Arcteryx and Patagonia, maybe a Dave Matthews Band tossed in? Am I supposed to think you are cool or something? There is actually a car in my neighborhood with a Chaco sticker!! Really? I mean, they're great for comfy summer outdoor shoes, but could someone actually love them sooo much they want to advertise them on their car? I want to sell kits that come complete with all the stickers to create your own persona. Oh yeah, those European country stickers too. Dumb.
Imagine my shock when I am watching television, at an hour just late enough to forget about my ability to fast-forward through commercials on the DVR, and am assaulted by the presence of a long-forgotten figure from my childhood. Only something was wrong. Desperately wrong.
No longer is Chester Cheetah the loveable cartoony tiger always in a hurry to get more cheese coursing through his veins. Now, he is, well…what he is exactly is somewhat of a mystery. Is he an evil super villain, come to infect the world with his version of Agent Orange? Or is he simply a giant dick encouraging others to make equally dickish moves while using his product?
Enough is enough, you personality-morphing, shades-sporting, king of the cheese. Though I am all for your apparent movement to equalize the class structure, you are still the trademarked figure of a snack brand that no one over the age of 16 will ever admit to eating. Isn’t it bad enough that you stain our fingers with your powdery proliferation without creeping us out with your deeply voiced dogma?
It is time for my fist to make high-velocity contact with your face. The punch will be crunchy, your face will be puffy, and the result will surely be flaming hot. Serves you right for spreading your cheesiness all around town.
In case you need some video references:
Or this one at a laundromat: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=hokQnWm-rjM&NR=1
I’m all for amusement parks. God knows, while growing up in suburban New Jersey, I enjoyed many days of a misspent youth riding roller coasters at that grand utopia of adolescent frivolity known as Six Flags’ Great Adventure which (aside from that horrible Haunted Castle incident in 1984) always seemed to be a safe, fun place to hang out. As the good folks there so aptly put it, “There’s a time for work and a time for play.” This is true. However, there is ALSO a time to bust someone square in the mush, which is why I hereby nominate “Mister Six”, the current TV ad rep for Six Flags, as the latest recipient of this well-deserved honor. If you’ve never seen this so-called “ambassador of fun” in action, you can get a gander at the child-frightening insanity here:
Now that we’re all clear on who I’m talking about, can someone please explain to me how Uncle Junior from The Sopranos got stuck with this fucking job? Better yet, what Red Bull-swilling, coke-snorting genius in the Six Flags’ advertising department came up with this concept? I would LOVE to have been a fly on the wall during that discussion: “Hey, I got an idea for a great new family-friendly way to promote our product! Let’s get an old bald guy in a tuxedo to drive around suburban America in a red-and-yellow version of the Rosa Parks bus and coerce unsuspecting adults and kids into going on a field trip to one of our theme parks by showing off his obnoxious dancing skills! Doesn’t that spell FUN?! Hah?”
How about a nice pipin’-hot fistful of NO, Six Flags? Never mind that your TV spots disregard basic rules for personal safety (RULE NUMBER ONE being: Never let a STRANGER drive you ANYWHERE, especially if he promises that it’s someplace “fun”), but watching a skinhead version of Lew Wasserman freak dance to “We Like to Party” by the Vengaboys does not spell FUN. It spells CREEPSHOW. It doesn’t exactly make me wanna get on a magic bus ride with this Gooney Goo-Goo to Six Flags either, even if it does boast the Rolling Thunder, Lightning Loops and a Log Flume. It does, however, make me wanna go smashmouth on your mascot’s ancient ass. I wanna knock him right out of his two-tone boogie shoes and throw him in front of the Runaway Train. In fact, if I set foot inside the gates of a Six Flags ever again and I see this obnoxious geriatric spaz so much as “bunny hop” within 50 feet of me, I’m gonna send a big fat knuckleblast flying into that gaping Latex mug of his. So consider yourself warned, ya rug-cutting Crypt Keeper. Fortunately, I’m not the only one who feels like inflicting physical harm on this silly, street-swingin’ septuagenarian. The folks at Robot Chicken have already arranged an all-too fitting demise for him, which is, admittedly, a lot more violent than a biff to the cakehole. But hey…this is America and the right to bear arms, even the animated kind, is one I can support in this case. So, kudos to them for offing this dancing douchebag; Uncle June himself would have approved. Then again, I would have been happy if they’d used a giant Claymation fist, too.
—Kevin Byrne
Kevin suggested I write about Mister Six a while back, but since I don't live near a Six Flags, I hadn't been introduced to—that is, driven to the brink of insanity by—the commercial. (photo: cracked.com/blog)
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