With 15 – count ’em – 15 all-star internal organs in each and every member of the cast. Now bigger, better, brighter, and suitable for all the family.
If that won’t sell soap you can lather me with a polecat…
I love advertisements. I love them so much that I hate them intensely. This disgust has provided me with hours of pleasure. You too can have the mild, smooth, flavour of the best Madison Avenue bile in your throat. Just ask your mechanic to fit them before winter.
If you did nothing more than read lame advertisements all day, you would be on Facebook. I cannot spend this sort of time due to restraining orders ( The Order Of St. Beatrice of the Ball-Gag. ) so I resort to books of old ads drawn from the magazines and posters of the twentieth century. Many of them are produced by Taschen, the German publishers., and they are well-done. Printed on good stock and always reasonably priced. They do a good line of pin-up pornography too, drawing upon older stocks that have been discovered in shoeboxes in attics.
If you are prepared to ignore the Taschen bigotry and biases, the ads they have collected are a wonderful vision of older societies. I read their American anthologies over and over – and wish they could find and encapsulate the same sort of thing for French, British, and Italian publications of the period. Often the commercial adverts are the clearest lens into the period that researchers can use.
Magazine advertisements were some of the first written messages I ever looked at – the radio jingles of the 1950’s some of the first music. It is no wonder that I can remember brand names and personalities of the time – they were dinned into me from infancy. And thus no wonder that I now favour a brand of canned food or motor car that was there for me all the time. Give me a slice of tinned Chevrolet every time.
Which brings me to the business of the little niche market product shown so cunningly on social media site. it’s been brought to me by a click I may have made on the net two weeks ago – or indeed it might have been two minutes ago. The response time for hucksters is shortening. And we’re bred for shortening. In fact, Momma’s little baby always did love shortnin’ bread…