Licking Pigs

I’m going to do it.

I’m going to go out there and start licking pigs, and end this madness once and for all.

This hysteria has got to stop! Upon the start of the regular flu season, at which point the delerium of the summer-of-swiney collided with the traditional early-fall panic to create a new breed of monster freak-out, the shit very subtley hit the fan at my work, and apparently less subtley everywhere else.

Without alerting the in-office clients, we were quietly told to start making hand sanitizer available everywhere. Ok, not a huge deal. We were also told to start Lysol-ing the crap out of our phones and keyboards. Oooookay, I guess one should be more cautious than usual in a public area that sees such heavy pedestrian traffic. Not my style personally, but hey, I just do what I’m told.

Then we were given alerts about symptoms, precautionary measures, emergency procedures, and brightly coloured easy-to-read mini-posters alerting us to the death that was surely waiting a sneeze away. Documents that looked more like something out of District-9 than inter-office memorandum.

Then I was handed a cleaning schedule, and that was the final straw. Cleaning is already enough of my usual 9-5 taskload, because frankly the only swiney I’m worried about around here are the pigs that leave wadded up paper towels in their slowly moulding coffee mugs in the sink. I already wipe mystery goo off walls and scrape a depressing amount of filth off counters. I’m more than aware of how to keep bacteria off my hands. So when I’m handed an anti-swiney cleaning regiment to be completed EVERY HALF AN HOUR that I soon realize takes TWENTY MINUTES to complete, my gut reaction is as follows:

a) Dear bosses: If you think I have that much spare time in the average day, what exactly have you been paying me to do up until now?

and b) No. No, no, no! I will not!

This is craziness! If you’re that concerned, hire a damn antibacterial-masked bubble-wrapped she-bot to do your bidding. I have shit to do! Like make sure about 500 calls a day get answered properly, mail for nearly 100 different companies get sorted and delivered, documents get shipped out, shipped in, signed for, bound or requested from various legal entities, make sure the kitchen is cleaned and stocked, boardrooms appropriately scheduled and tidied (and I don’t mean ‘tidy’, I mean ‘pens are placed logo-up on pad of paper at 45 degree angle as per 1000+ identical locations company-wide policy and so help you if the boss shows up and it isn’t done right’ kind of ‘tidy’.)

I DON’T HAVE TIME FOR YOUR HYSTERIA!!!!

I get it, this isn’t just the regular flu. But breeding super germs within my body by way of this ultra-sterile behaviour was not part of my job description the last time I checked. And another thing: if you really are that fearful for the lives of your clients and maybe even staff, then may I suggest you spend some of those hard earned dollars on getting us all vaccinated?

Not that I’m not suspicious of a hastily formulated, poorly distributed, side affect riddled, overly hyped innoculation. I just figure if hockey players and private school students get to jump the lines ahead of young mothers, children and the elderly waiting for hours in the cold and rain outside of under-stocked pop-up clinics, then surely my white collar, benefits-up-the-ass colleagues and I deserve preferential treatment as well. Right?

Hells no. Wash your hands, drink your vitamin C, and if you’re that concerned – go to your doctor. This is Canada; they’re backed up, hectic, but free.

come and get me, you pork punk little bastard!

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Problems in Advertising

I’ll admit there are some commercials out there that grab me hook, line and sinker. And I have no problem conscientously awarding good advertising. Someone had to think that shit up, and if I need a product, I’m going to give my money to someone who was at least witty or humourous in their efforts to get at my pocket change.

I try very hard not to be an over-consumer. Sometimes I look around, even in my tiny place and think “Why the hell do I have so much STUFF?! I hate stuff!” But let’s face it – at some point I’m going to need a bathroom cleanser, and after that brilliant ad Vim put out where it looked like the mother was in jail but actually cleaning her shower, I’m all for it (provided the product actually works, of course.)

Then there are other ads, the ones I see right through. I give credit for this ability to a minor, elective class I took in high school. Not a university deal, or a even a required credit. I had to pick a class to fill a time slot, and I chose ‘media studies’, with no actual interest in the field. It was a ton of fun and relatively easy, just what I was looking for. But I did learn a hell of a lot, more than in pretty much any other course that semester. I couldn’t tell you jack shit about the quadratic equation, but I can sure call bullshit on the television when I see it.

Here are my latest whiffs of horsecrap for your reading enjoyment.

Downy Simple Pleasures:

Look at me! I'm soft, feminine, and shaped like you wish you were!

The ad begins with “all women have many sides”, and continues to advertise the premise that women can express their various facets by way of scented laundry detergent. Right. Because all of my moods essentially boil down to huffing lavender versus orange when cleaning for my eventual family. Okay, I see no orange, but “Amethyst Mist” is NOT a scent! You know what amethyst smells like? Cold! Because it’s a rock!

Here’s a curveball for you Downy: Can you come up with a scent that effectively captures the feeling of “I really love Josh and can’t wait to get married and have a life and family with him, but sometimes the whole mom/wife thing seems so intimidating that every once in a while I wish I was still sleeping face down on a bare mattress on the floor of a Kensington Market slumhouse surrounded by overflowing ash trays and beer cans?”

No, I don’t think you could.

Palm Pre, or anything iPhone:

More complex technology = cleaner looking ads. This one is so comlpex, her face looks like its been soaked in bleach.

You know what? Believe it or not, I actually DON’T need you to live. In the time it takes you to find the right app (from the gagillion available – including a contraction counter for labouring ladies) and hit that notify button to tell people you’re running late to wherever, I can just as easily flip open my regular old phone and text “crap – run. late15m.” It will be plenty understood, even by those friends without their lifeline affixed to your brandnames. And even without my regular old cellphone, I could just show up late and take casual note that although I prefer to be on time to lifes important dates, in the rare event that I am not, the world will in fact keep on spinning.

Swiffer, Febreze, and pretty much anything else along those lines:

what

the

ass

 

WHAT WOMAN WHERE CLEANS THE DAMN HOUSE FROM TOP TO BOTTOM IN WELL PRESSED KHAKIS?!?!? LIES, ALL LIES!!!!

Maybelline Pulse Perfection:

mine can't be the only mind in the gutter...

Um….no. Just no. I’m not putting a vibrating stick near my eyes, especially not when it’s coated with black sticky goo that hurts when it gets in there on its own, nevermind with a micro-drill. But thank you, Maybelline, for being that concerned about my ability to stop traffic with the fluttering of my lashes – like when I’m going “OW! MY EYE!!! DEAR GOD, MY EYE!!! GET IT OUT!!! GET IT OUT, OH GOD!!! WHAT HAVE I DONE TO DESERVE THIS?!!?” If, in some weird parallel universe I ever succumb to this advert and accidentally remove half my cornea while cat-walking the streets of New York and simultaneously fluffing my lashes, I sincerely hope that another version of myself is around to say “I know why. Because you used that fucking vibrator stick near your face, stupid.” Said other version of myself will then likely go back to pushing a wobbly cart full of newspapers, relish, and other conspiracy theory evidence.

 

Well, that’s all for now my internet stumblers. I’m going to turn off the tv for the night because any more ridiculous adverts and my head just might explode. That and there’s only two episodes of the Simpsons on per night, and I don’t care about whats on after the second one. I hope you’ve enjoyed my bullshit advertising expose, or at the very least, I’ve prevented you from buying crap you don’t need. Which means more dollaz for the strip club, yo!

What? Who said that? 😉