Sorry, boys. We own you.
Another in our ongoing series of hilarious, sexy, booze-related commercials. Let’s get the Scots (particularly that long-haired one) together with this chick and breed a race of super-drinkers. Imagine if that happened: finally a date that could keep up with me!
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I don’t care what you’ve got, it’s not as good as this. This is, quite simply, the best commercial ever made. New Zealand vs Scotland, man-mountains vs Abercrombie and Fitch models, two avatars of modern masculinity going head-to-head in a testosterone-sodden war. Who wins?
Watch this, and then you tell me.
Me? I think the audience wins!
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Having never participated in Blogathon before, I was unsure how to prepare, and consequently there are some gaping holes where my careful preparations should be. I brought, for instance, my travel kit of personal care products including shampoo, conditioner, toothpaste and toothbrush. I forgot, however, a towel. I suppose I could always air-dry?
And I’m out of gin. Yes, ALREADY.
As with my prep, so with my after-party; that is, I haven’t gotten it hooked up yet. I would assume that doing 48 posts in 24 hours (NOT 49, I AM TELLING YOU) would be deserving of a reward, one other than and in addition to the obvious one of sleep. Just what that reward could be, I haven’t really decided, except that it will involve making other people do stuff I could damn well do for myself. In fact, as long as it meets that criteria, it qualifies as what I want most. I mostly always want other people to do stuff for me, but rarely have the excuse to demand it.
Which, you may have noticed, does not stop me from doing so anyway.
I could get someone to help me clean my place, but a) it’s so big a job I’d have to help out, thus negating the not-lifting-a-finger thing, b) no way can I afford to pay someone to tackle this themselves, in fact I’m not sure Bill Gates has enough money. I mean, I know what’s growing under there; can I honestly ask some poor sap from MollyMaid to take that on? And can I afford to settle the wrongful death suits if she does?
I could get perfume, only the only perfume I like costs enough that it might as well be distilled from the beaded brow sweat of the collected offspring of Serge Gainsbourg, generated while they adapted Mozart’s Queen of the Night aria to a new rock opera to star Viggo Mortensen. Harvested under a solar eclipse.
So, yeah.
I could get a pirate hat. I look GOOOOOOOD in a pirate hat, not like some costumey dope; I look like some cross-dressing 17th Century chick on a mission of revenge, something that’ll change the course of history in the South Pacific forever. Not like this:
But a cheap pirate hat is not a good look. So it’s either the expensive pirate hat, or the spa visit, I’m thinking. Or gin? Gin goes with everything!
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Awwww, Metro will feel so special. I recall there was some bitching about the last time I posted something for him, but then not everyone likes getting their picture taken.
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Have you ever wondered (and if so, were you sober enough to remember it the next morning) what the James Bond movies would be like if they starred, instead of Connery, Brosnan, et al hunkish cohorts, someone whose appeal was not simply the way they fill out a debonair DJ? Someone more cerebral…someone whose appeal is that romantic touchstone, “He makes me laugh”?
Someone like Abbott and Costello?
No, huh? Oh, FINE, here then. Don’t say I never did nuthin’ for ya.
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raincoaster 