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Dangleberries No More

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    Dangleberries No More

    This commercial makes me laugh, but at the same time, it makes me cringe. It's just kind of wrong on several levels.

    #2
    Dangleberries No More

    All Charmin adverts are ever so slightly creepy, I find.

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      #3
      Dangleberries No More

      The thread title makes me think the Proclaimers missed a trick.

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        #4
        Dangleberries No More

        Ha ha! I thought the same thing after I typed it.

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          #5
          Dangleberries No More

          Proclaimers? Wha...eh? Hmm?

          It's difficult selling toilet paper to the masses because you can't really get down to the nitty-gritty of it all, can you? Where you've got ads for kitchen cloths and fluids that show those pesky patches of grubby, moist yuk that suddenly disappear with one swipe, the disappearance of bumgravy from botty-clefts - aided by sheets of soft Charmin - is verboten.

          And if you did show such acts in 3-minute ads ("Just two vigorous rubs of Charmin along the slotty bit gets rid of any irritating clag.."), there'd be uproar and outrage, when it's perfectly clear that we've all got bumholes and so what's the fuss? It's a bit like that ad some years ago that just had a bunch of wobbling arses in black and white. Actually, recalling it now, it was amusing that it had no male arses in it, just a row of female bums all tastefully photographed, the abscence of male bottage bringing forth the weirdly promoted notion that men don't crap. But it just explains the minefield that ad types have to negotiate when explaining the uses of toilet paper.

          In fact, this women-only imagery of televisual pooping also extends to ads for laxatives. Funny that it's always women that are chosen to promote the efficacy of Senakot and all other stool-cannons and not men, with the female gender seeming more elegant in the handling of the stomach-trouble question than their rough, blokey male counterparts. With women, it's a walk from their posh semi-detached house in Kensington before a gentle clutch to the tummy and a look of strained vexation, and, before long, post-Senakot intake, she can go on with normal life, handing out car-maintenance equipment from a Tardis handbag to stranded motorist with fucked vehicles. So not only does Senakot make women drop their lunch with ease, it also gives them the power to assist the general public with any matters of great urgency. If you have a heart condition and suddenly have the misfortune to get a coronary somewhere along the high street, then your luck is about to change, because there's a woman near you who's just laid a cable successfully with Senakot and who can hand you a defibrilator unit from her purse in next to no time.

          With men, the matter would be much more difficult to solve. Women would bring that touch of refinement and dignity to the removal of stomach-chod, whereas man would be brusque and brutal about it, striding from their Kensington semi loudly declaring that, blimey, he's got a load the size of Norway that won't come out and he needs a dose of Senakot for a spot of red-hot, arse-thunder, pan-splat action. And unlike the ladies, who'll produce intricate technical equipment at the moment it matters, the male will leave the house aglow with pride at having offloaded his brown cargo, and spend most of the day talking to his mates at work at how he launched the submarine with due success, and how it was so big he could have taken it for a walk. Laxatives need the ladies touch - away with the neanderthal male's crude approach to dumping.

          Thinking about it, the laxative would have been a perfect choice for those early black and white '60's ads, where ladies were still yielding, softly-spoken hausfraus and the men were away at work, leaving a polite, yet subtly patronising voice to question her on her use of home bum-looseners.

          [A housewife walks across her front room, gently patting the feather duster against sideboards and chairs]

          Voice: I say, you there, madam...

          [The housewife walks towards the camera]

          Housewife: Hello.

          Voice: You're doing a fine job cleaning your home.

          Housewife: Why, thank you. I do happen to feel a little frail, though.

          Voice: Oh, and why's that? You don't mean...

          Housewife: I'm afraid so.

          Voice: Then I've got just the thing for you...

          [Cut to a bottle of Heaveaway]

          Voice: Yes, Heaveaway reduces life's little problems and ensures that the housewife's day can go on as smoothly as before, feeling lighter and happier.

          [Cut to the housewife emerging from a little room, leaving the door open slightly]

          Voice: How do you feel now?

          Housewife: Oh, much better. Thanks to Heaveaway, I can continue to get on with my chores without any bother now.

          Voice: Ahem...

          Housewife: Oh, so sorry.

          [Closes the door]

          Voice: Heaveaway. Lighten the load by getting rid of yours.

          But now we have bears advocating the use of arse-cleaning products. This is a sad state of affairs when you think about it. The bear was and is a child of wild nature, a pure thing of the remote forest, untainted by any force that seeks to domesticate it, only brought to fury when intruders set foot uninvited into its domain. Like the lion, an energy that refuses to be bent to the will of man. And what happens? They end up promoting 100 ways to wipe your bum. You read of bear attacks that happen and it's no wonder why they chow down on humans at the first opportunity. Their fury was probably sparked by watching forest television and finding out to their dismay and horror that their standing and regality in the food chain of the natural world has plunged due to their being reduced to cuddly animated bags of fur flogging toilet paper. They probably get texts off lions who brag that at least they spent most of their time trying to eat Johnny Weissmuller and Ron Ely and wouldn't even contemplate signing a contract to promote healthy buttock-scraping. The bear's fury is understandable. One moment you're the king of the verdant woodlands, the next you're giving Bear Jr. valuable lessons on how to clear his arsehole of tagnuts with Ch-ch-ch-ch-Charmin.

          The irony, of course, is when an ad-man, out on a camping trip, comes across a hungry and surly bear, gets eaten and finally becomes the moist matter that needs scrubbing up with the product he spent so many nights thinking up good copy for.

          Life would be shit in every sense.

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            #6
            Dangleberries No More

            Stool-cannons indeed. Top form on a monday morning Ian.

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