Badvertising

If there's any question as to whether or not advertising is a colossal scam, this should settle the score:

A £125,000 campaign to replace Scotland's Best Small Country In The World tag has been unveiled. And the exciting new catchphrase dreamed up by top advertising brains is... "Welcome to Scotland".

Welcome to Scotland? Can you even copyright that? If I was Scotland, I would be livid. Not because the tag is so simple. But because, even if you paid me a quarter million dollars, I'd be hard pressed to come up with a worse tagline. Trust me. I tried. In fact, the only slogan I came up with that even approaches the shittiness of "Welcome to Scotland" is "Scotland: It's a Country". And even that has a nice ring to it.

The point is this. Taglines are supposed to be ambiguous. If a tagline makes sense, it's not effective. Taglines should be the source of endless confusion, and cripple rational thought processes. They should paradoxically make absolutely no sense, and absolute sense, simultaneously.

Take Nike's slogan, "Just do it". It's brilliant. Nobody knows what it means. I don't even think Nike knows what it means. But I'll tell you what, I can definitely get down with doing it. Especially if Michael Jordan tells me to. Or, DeBeers. They say, "A Diamond Is Forever". Even if a diamond is forever (whatever that entails) won't whoever you give it to be dead by the time forever rolls around? Still, it's a tempting prospect... I'll take two. Then there's McDonald's tagline, "I'm lovin' it". I don't know what I'm supposed to be lovin' but I sincerely doubt it's the McChicken sandwiches or the chronic diarrhea.

Here's the kicker. For whatever reason, badvertising works. That's why I've developed the tagline to end all taglines. It works universally, for every product, everywhere. It's simple. It's perfect. It's three letters long.


Yep. It works like a charm.

Inadvisable

Since Cooking With Pooh costs $101.65 at Amazon.com, I doubt it will ever take off. On a serious note, if baking feces-chip cookies has EVER crossed your mind, kindly kill yourself. The world already has enough people that are full of shit.

The Second Worst Song Of All Time

Remember Tay Zonday? Yeah, me either. But someone did. And they decided it was a good idea to finance a sequel to his cult classic 'Chocolate Rain'. The new video is a three minute ode to why Zonday, who now goes by T.A.Y. to the Z, is a shining role model for creepy people the world over, and living proof that anyone can make it. Even if you look like a ventriloquist dummy.

If you can stomach it...


The video was pretty lame until about halfway though, at which point (to the astute observer) Zonday's virginity becomes painfully obvious when he awkwardly attempts to hand-feed cherries to a woman sitting on a couch. Then, out of the blue, a squirrel--which I'm pretty sure was an actual dead, stuffed squirrel--gets smothered in liquid chocolate.

It turns out, the whole charade was a commercial for the new Cherry Chocolate Dr. Pepper. I was a little ticked at first. But then I realized something. I live in a country where a terrible idea and a knack for being unfathomably devoid of talent will take you straight to the top. And I thought you had to marry Britney Spears. Maybe there's hope for me yet.

1000 Words

Either Phil Michelson just missed an important putt, or that guy in the background (who appears to have been raised by a pack of wolves) has the art of the mating call down pat.


Sweet merciful Jesus! Someone get this woman a gold medal. Just throw it in the water. But careful, she looks hungry.


To be perfectly honest, I'm not really sure if I'm looking at a professional diver...


...or the Great Cornholio.


For more brilliantly-timed sports photos, check out Daily Rumors.

What Goes Up...

Life is like a bell curve. You start off trapped in the womb. It's hard to remember this period of life, but I assure you, it sucks. Being a fetus is probably a lot like being tied up inside a bowl of applesauce... for nine months. When you get out, things don't get much better. Until you're about 5, let's face it, you don't really know what's going on. You can barely put coherent sentences together and the vast majority of your time is spent crying, sleeping, or crying because your uncaring guardians force you to go to sleep immediately after the sun sets.

But then it gets better. Before you know it, you're a miniature human being, chatting up a storm, running around like a madman, watching TV and stuffing your face with Dunkaroos and nachos. Slowly but surely you're handed responsibility that you don't deserve. Suddenly, you can drive, vote and poison your liver. But after 25, as far as I can tell, everything goes violently downhill. To all the nay-sayers, take a look at this highly scientific chart, painstakingly crafted in MS Paint:

There are no positive milestones beyond the age of 25. There's only one life-sucking, freak occurrence after another. What have I got to look forward to? Divorce? Prostate cancer? Death? When I was young I used to dream about my future as an astronaut or a paleontologist. I'm neither. And now, all I can think about is my impending, catastrophic downfall.

Thanks, life. Thanks a lot.

Mister Splashy Pants

Greenpeace has saved another whale. Ordinarily, I'd ignore the story and go back to polluting the environment, but some unknown force compelled me to read on. Generally, rescued whales are tagged and promptly named Willy, or something equally trite. But in this case, Greenpeace decided to leave the naming up to the dopey, glassy-eyed masses.

"More than 11,000 possible whale names were submitted but we are now down to the last 30 possible whale names. Choose your favourite name from among the 30 below and hit the submit button at the bottom of the page. The voting ends on the 30th of November 2007 at 17:00 Amsterdam time."

One name choice, Kaimana, means 'divine power of the ocean' in Polynesian. Another, Amal, translates to 'hope' in Arabic. But one name shines above the rest: Mister Splashy Pants (which doesn't translate to a goddamn thing, as you probably imagined).

It goes without saying, I cast my vote for Mister Splashy Pants immediately. When the page refreshed, and the leader-board materialized, you can imagine my overwhelming glee when saw...


I'm no soothsayer, but if you've ever dreamed of being part of something great, I'm gonna go ahead and say this is probably your chance.

Vote Splashy Pants, here.

Facebook Unleashed

In the old days, leashes were the domain of domesticated animals and the occasional dominatrix. Not anymore. Today’s parents simply strap a harness across their kid’s chest, grab the reins, and hope to keep their offspring on course like they're running a suburban Iditarod. This Facebook group takes issue with the burgeoning child/leash phenomenon. They feel bad for the kids. You know who needs the sympathy? The leash. The only thing keeping some hyperactive little snot off the third-rail is a measly piece of nylon. That’s a great deal of pressure to put on an inanimate object. The group purports, “if I was put on a leash I would be scarred for life.” That’s a bit dramatic, and actually, scientifically flawed. Scarred for life is what happens when an unwieldy child runs into the middle of the road when he hears the ice cream truck coming. Truth be told, when one considers the next logical step in terms of child rearing – the taser – a leash seems like, well... child’s play.

For more strange but true Facebook groups, check out my article at mental_floss magazine.

Thanksdorking

If you're like me, Thanksgiving consists of stuffing a turkey, your face, and passing out on the floor in front of the TV with your fly unzipped. For my money, there's no better way to celebrate the wholesale slaughter of the natives. But for the folks at Wired, there's more to Turkey Day than meets the eye. They've been kind -- and nerdy -- enough to put all the Thanksgiving classics under the microscope. Literally.

Mmm... molecular gravy...

An Inconvenient Truth

When you look up the word "fucked" in the dictionary, chances are, you'll find a picture like this one. Can someone throw the poor thing a rope? Or at least a pot of honey? I mean, look at him. He can't even lay down. He just has to sit there like a goddamn toucan, perched on this tiny mound of ice. Since Al Gore won't run for president, I demand a detailed plan to stop global warming from each of the candidates. Except Mike Huckabee. We all know what his plan is. Chuck Norris.

What the Chuck?

What follows is a chronological account of my inner monologue during this video:

2 Seconds: I wonder if I could eat just one Lay's potato chip?
5 Seconds: Oh, fuck. Mike Huckabee.
8 Seconds: Hey! It's chuck Norris...
9 Seconds: Did he just say Chuck Norris?
13 Seconds: Wait, is Chuck Norris seriously your fucking plan to save the borders?
26 Seconds: Wow... he is serious.
36 Seconds: Did he just say that with a straight face?
47 Seconds: When was the last time Chuck Norris told America "how it's gonna be?" The Total Gym commercial? The only people who still like Chuck Norris are the 14 year old boys who tell Chuck Norris jokes, like the dumb one you just said about push-ups. And they can't even vote.
53 Seconds: Why?
55 Seconds: Really, Chuck?
59 Seconds: I'm moving to Canada.

Double Team

After yesterday's ritual slaughter of the Buffalo Bills, it's pretty clear the Patriots cannot be beaten. So, in an effort to level the playing field, the New England Patriots must play two teams instead of one for the remainder of the season. There are only six weeks left. During this time, teams scheduled for a bye must join forces with whoever is slated to play the Patriots. As a result, the Patriot's opponents will field twice the usual number of players at any given time. Teams will also be encouraged to tackle Randy Moss at the line of scrimmage whether or not he is near the ball, without fear of penalty. Finally, if the Patriots reach the Super Bowl, Tom Brady cannot play. Instead, the Patriots will be required to raffle off the spot of starting QB to a lucky fan during halftime of their next home game.

That should do the trick.

Better Never, Than Late

One of my biggest pet peeves is when I think of something brilliant that already exists. It happens to me all the time. Some would say, "maybe your ideas aren't that brilliant." Unlikely. Maybe too many things exist. My latest stroke of genius proves it.

Have you ever hated someone so much you wish you could shit on their face? Me too. That's why I invented George W. Bush toilette paper. I even had a tagline "Wipe away that stupid smirk." The only problem is, someone already invented it. Figures.

Puppeteering for Peace

If you take the subway with any regularity, sooner or later, you will witness a fight. When human beings are corralled into a dingy steel box that screeches like a banshee in giving birth to overweight triplets, Murphy's Law is at its finest. Fortunately, the altercations are mind-numbingly formulaic. So it’s easy to see them coming. They almost always involve coffee and a crabby guy wearing plaid shirt, with a duffel bag at his feet. I don’t know what’s in the duffle bag. But there’s always a duffle bag. More often than not the spat dissolves peacefully, but the guy in plaid invariably yells something like, "Yeah, that’s what I thought. Keep walking, bitch!" as the other gets off the train.

This morning was no different. All the pieces of the puzzle were in place: the coffee, the plaid, and the duffel bag. Out of nowhere, but unsurprisingly to a seasoned observer, an argument erupted, as if an invisible chemical reaction between the plaid and the caffeine were at play. But as the heated shouting match spilled out onto the platform, the most unlikely chain of events in subway fight history transpired before my very eyes...

A puppet, perched atop a cardboard castle, swayed soulfully as it lip-synced "Easy" by Lionel Richie. The men stopped in their tracks and just stood there, side-by-side, rapt. The fight was over. The masterful puppeteer, David Marin, had saved the day. It was the most curiously beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.

Neckless

Rudy Giuliani will not be getting my vote in the upcoming election. I could rattle off dozens of reasons, but there's one that stands above all the rest: the President of the United States must have a neck. Not surprisingly, the media has been chillingly tight-lipped on this matter. I'm here to break the silence.

You don’t need a neck to be a janitor. You don't need a neck to host radio show, or play defensive end in the NFL. In my book, you don't even need a neck to be an Olympic figure skater, or a bassoonist, or a travel agent. But if you’ve got your sights on being the leader of the free world, your head cannot sit snugly atop your collarbone like a sack of potatoes on a hammock. Sorry, Rudy, that's just how it is.