4.16.2014

Badvertising: You know what would really sell socks?

I don't really think a lot about my sock purchases. I don't have any sort of brand loyalty when it comes to socks, and really just default to whatever feels nice and cushy, matches the color I'm looking for, and is cheapest. If it meets those three criteria, it goes home with me on the once-every-other-year trip I make to buy socks.

But companies that make socks, like Burlington here, want you to remember their name when you're in the sock aisle (seriously though, how often do people buy socks? Am I the weirdo for wearing them until they have holes in them? Do people regularly buy socks every week? That seems weird to me.) so they needed a memorable ad that would burrow into your brain and create a positive association with the Burlington brand.

And someone, somewhere, pitched them a concept in which a mother sexually abuses her son. 

And somehow that person was not immediately fired. 

And somehow this insane fucking concept made it through to actually air (in Europe, I think, but still).

The video is safe for work, although if you have your speakers turned up someone's ears might perk up at the suggestive wordplay. And setting aside the debate for why Western culture still insists males cannot be victims of sexual abuse because they would obviously enjoy any and all sexual advances, even from their mothers, who the fuck thought that the suggested image of a woman blowing her underaged son at the kitchen table would sell socks?


3.08.2014

The Road to Recovery, Part 2

Part 1

The neurosurgeon explained to me my options in the rapid fire, emotionless, monotone voice of a guy who came here from China to be a neurosurgeon and really doesn't have time to deal with bullshit like my feelings. 

He points out the MRI results and goes over them with me. The view of the MRI is as if you were staring down through my body from above, so we're looking at a cross-section of spine and, well, me. 

"That was gross. And kind of weirdly intimate," Kat told me later, "I...I saw your meat."
"Baby you're the only one I'd show my inner meat."

The neurosurgeon explained my situation:

3.07.2014

The Road to Recovery, Part 1

In August I decided to get serious about my health. Well, semi-serious. Slightly more serious than usual, anyway. Basically I wanted to spend more time exercising and less time having a sodium-fueled panic attack after eating enough Kung Pao Chicken to feed a family of four. So I enrolled at a gym up the street from my house. And it was fun! The gym is one of those "MMA" gyms, but it's less about punching each other in the face and more about bouncing around with fingerless gloves and punching bags while doing some vaguely Crossfit-ish things too.

So naturally after a couple weeks I hurt my back.

At first I thought it was a pulled muscle. My whole back locked up and it was really hard to stand up straight. Transitioning from "standing" (or my best approximation of it) to sitting or lying down was agony. So I rested it, iced it, and popped ibuprofen like they were candy. And it got better! Better enough that I could go back to the gym, where I would promptly hurt it again.

I went through about four months of this before I bit the bullet and went to Urgent Care.

2.04.2014

Is This Really All That Arousing?

There's a strip club near my office. Despite the fact that everyone instantly "jokingly" asks, I've never been in. I've yet to visit a strip club in Washington, mainly because: 
  • As a person over the age of 25 I like to think I've outgrown throwing down $15 for a beer.
  • My last experience in a strip club was slightly less than awesome.
  • I'm happily married and, failing that, I have an internet connection if I really need to see naked ladies.
  • Strip clubs in Washington don't serve booze and don't let the dancers get naked.
That's right. Strip clubs with no stripping. So whatever. But the club outside my office has a giant video board advertising all the boobs and butts you apparently can't see inside. So I get to look at that all day out the window, which is nice.

Lately they've been advertising a "Topless Tug o' War" and, to be honest, I'm unsure how that's supposed to be enticing. Of all the gym class activities I could envision topless women performing for my titillation, tug of war is pretty low on the list. Way below topless dodgeball, topless floor hockey, and even topless-we're-doing-line-dancing-for-a-week-and-nobody-knows-why.

I can't really picture this as sexy. Do...do the boobs jiggle differently while straining to pull a rope? Will they be pulled into something, like a pit of jello or whatever, that would look good on boobs? Is it just the Roman gladiator aspect of semi-nude combat that's arousing? 

I'm curious and also horrified to see what kind of person is lured by the promise of a topless tug of war. I hope they don't have to do it in those stiletto heels; "topless broken ankles" sounds even less sexy.