Awesome Vintage Advertisements

Friends and family have often remarked that I should have been born in a different decade. My favorites are the early 1900's, the 20's, the 30's, the 40's and the 50's. Yes, I have a lot of favorites. I can easily wax nostalgic about what the past might have been like, when life was simpler and blah, blah, blah. And then I see ads like these and it reminds me... I'm actually kinda glad I was born in the 70's, grew up in the 80's, made it through the 90's and am about to round out the 00's... whatever they decided to call it. I like to think "oohs" in my head.

Anyway, enjoy this strange bit ephemera from our weird and wonderful past.

Whaaaaaaaaaa...? No way! A car for her, too?! No, no, no... we can't be letting women drive cars!!! Next thing you know they're gonna want to vote and leave the house wearing shoes and crazy stuff like that. No, no, no... absolutely not. No cars for women. Now go make me a sammich.

Yeah, man! If you don't carpool, you're a Nazi!!!! Besides, how creepy would it be to ride all the way to work with invisible ghost Hitler? It would be slightly more creepy than riding with the real Hitler. But only slightly. He looks like a ghost from Scooby-Doo or something with those white outlines. And does anyone else think Hitler looks kinda sad? Maybe it's cuz he's dead... yeah, probably that.

"Don't stare at me like that." I'm sorry, honey. It's just that... what the crap are you wearing? Seriously, what is with that pec-baring asymmetrical tank top? And is that... an ascot??? And a belt? Really? With your... swimtrunks. Wow. And you make fun of me for wearing my white Birkenstocks to the beach? I mean, really Gerald...

Good news, ladies! This new product will give you the results you've been looking for! For all of you who have been dying to mimic the fashion-forward styles of the recently raided YFZ Fundamentalist Mormon compound in Texas, you are in luck. Note: the four ladies along the bottom are not only clients but they are also the 4 wives of the CEO!

Yeah, parents! Nobody wants a baby Rasputin around. Hey that reminds me... what's red and sits in a corner?

I don't have to make any observations about this one. I'll leave it to you to make up your own jokes. Don't forget the "Special Gift Offer: Buy one for yourself and for a friend."

Wow.

And that's my cue to leave. More to come later...

A Dear John Letter to Honeycomb

Dear Former Favorite Cereal,

We need to talk. I've been trying to figure out how to say this to you... so I guess I'm just going to say it, okay?

Look... you and I both know this isn't working out.

What?

Don't look so shocked. No, please... don't cry. It's not you, it's me.

Okay, okay... I admit it. I've met someone else. There. I said it. But don't get the wrong idea, okay? I was just innocently shopping at the grocery store the other day, preparing to pick up my usual box of, well, you. When all of a sudden, I felt the white-hot stare of another box, beckoning to me. There it was, on the shelf. Right next to you. All new... CHOCOLATE Honeycomb.

Look, it was on sale, so you can't really blame me, right? Okay... look, I'm sorry. I just couldn't help myself. I'm only human. A human who lurves chocolate. As soon as I tried Chocolate Honeycomb I was hooked like a psychotic cat on the 'nip. I've fallen helplessly in love with this new dark stranger. Hey, don't look so glum. Chin up there, chief. There are lots of other fish in the sea. Besides, I may just pick you up someday when I have a coupon.

Regretfully (sort of),

Me

P.S. If you break up with your tractor, is it called a John Deere letter?

A Love Letter to Honeycomb Cereal

Dearest Honeycomb,

How do I love thee? Let me count the ways. No wait, I hate math. So nevermind that. Anyway, you are so totally delicious. I enjoy your crunchy-sweet goodness every morning. Yours is a taste that reminds me of a bygone era. When men were men, boys were boys, chicks were girls, people were people and things were things. Kids stayed outside to play until dinnertime, coming in at dusk with skinned knees and lightning bugs in jars. The original NES console was still the coolest thing in town. Strawberry Shortcake still wore the old school aproned dress with handy berry-toting pocket while donning a ridiculously oversized poofy bonnet. I mean, this chick looked like she stepped right off a wagon train. You could even purchase the "Strawberry Shortcake Prairie Dug-Out Dream House TM", sold separately:

These days, instead of the ultra-matronly feedsack dress that Ma dun sewed fer her, she sports the fashionable pink cap and of-the-moment micro-mini with suggestive knee socks. Hello... parents? You're going to let your precious little Maddyson or Kendryckk or McKaeyluh play with this little tart? (Wow, a play on words. I tooootally didn't plan that).

Look at the picture of her on the corner of the box. I'll bet it's not the only corner she's ever been on, if you know what I mean. I mean, just look at the way she's standing, with that come-hither stare. Oh, sure... it seems harmless enough. But first it's little miss Sweet Thang here with her rock-and-roll strawberry belt, then it's on to Bratz dolls (A.K.A. the "gateway" toy) and the next thing you know, your daughter's on the pole and she's changed her name to Bambi or Candi or something else that ends in an "i".

So anyway, you get the point. Back in the day toys were still cool. McDonald's food still came in styrofoam containers. Michael Jackson still had a nose. Ah, those were the days. Oops... I'm sorry Honeycomb. I didn't mean to bore you. Boy, this love letter sure took a strange turn there for a minute.

Okay, back to how awesome you are...

So Honey... can I call you "Honey"? Honey, I think I'm ready to take our relationship to the next level. You've probably noticed that lately I've begun consuming you at odd and distinctly non-breakfasty times of the day. Dry handfuls, as a snack. Sometimes a bowlful for dinner. Sleepwalking at night for a quick "fix" and then sleepdriving to the store because I'm out of milk. Man, I've really got to stop taking Ambien. At any rate, I hope that I've proven to you that I'm ready to devote more quality time to our relationship. I can only hope that you feel the same way.

Until tomorrow morning... or perhaps this evening... or perhaps in a few minutes, when I start craving a mid-afternoon snack...

XOXO,

Me

Fallish

Oh, man I love fall! There's that crisp smell and slight bite in the air. Just enough of a coolness to toss on a light jacket and pull out your boots again. Something about fall makes me feel alive. I've always loved it.

With that, I've composed a list of the Top Ten Things to Do in the Fall:

1. Wear fingerless gloves and pretend you're a hobo.


2. Jump in a pile of leaves.


3. Do stuff that is cool.


4. Smell the fresh air.


5. Do neat things.


6. Listen to the wind rustling the dead leaves in the trees. Then get all emo and stuff because the leaves have died. Go home and journal about the sad fate of the leaves.


7. Do some really fun and neat stuff.


8. Do things that are cool.


9. Step on a crunchy leaf and savor the satisfying *SQWUNCH* it makes. Ponder the fragility of life.


10. Read this article about fall, from the Onion: Fall Canceled After 3 Billion Seasons

Go out and enjoy the first official day of fall!!!

Happy ITLAPD!!!!!!1!!

It be the day, mateys. "International Talk Like a Pirate Day." The day of all days. The day which causes all other days to cower in fear... or at least back up a half a step in slight disbelief and confused apprehension. And then trip over the curb they didn't see behind them.

For all things pirate and to learn more about ITLAPD, go here, if ye dare:

http://www.talklikeapirate.com/piratehome.html

Pirates. Either you love 'em. Or hate 'em. Or you think they're just "okay."

If you hate pirates, there's a good chance that you love ninjas. You know... those ridiculous black PJ-wearing posers who are so insecure about their so-called assassin abilities that they actually, get this, hide their faces. As if. At least pirates have the where-with-all and gritty swagger to show their faces; scars, gold teef, salty beards, eye patches and all. I mean, that ain't a pretty picture. Would you want to be caught dead in public without your paper sack if you looked like this:

Sorry. I couldn't find my pictures from last year when I was a pirate for Halloween so I had to wing it. By the way, my Photoshop (read: Microsoft Paint, cuz I totally don't have Photoshop) skillz utterly PWN everyone else's. It's obvious from the masterpiece posted above.

Aaaaaaaaanyway... I showed up for our company Halloween contest in my pirate garb expecting it to be like any other normal day in which your coworkers dress up like complete doofuses and pretend not to be stuffed shirts. But I. Was in. For a shock.

I went to deliver something to another building in our complex when suddenly and without warning I came face-to-face with my sworn enemy. The receptionist was dressed [DUN-DUN-DUN!!!!!] as a dirty, dirty ninja. Ew. I said to her, in a dramatic fashion, "We meet at last," as I raised a menacing eyebrow. (It was the left one. The other one, not so menacing. My right eyebrow can be quite charming, actually. Tells a lot of good jokes at parties.) Ninja Lite looked at me as if I had just sprouted tiny little nose gremlins from within my nostrils and said gremlins were now swinging from my nose-hairs. She, apparently, was not aware of the fact that pirates and ninjas are mortal enemies engaged in an epic battle to prove who is tougher, who is scarier and who can eat more hotdogs in a hotdog-eating contest. (WINNER: pirates, by a long shot. Have you ever seen a fat ninja? No, you haven't. And that's because they're really careful about counting their carbs. Little known fact.)

In summary, ninjas are dumB. I like to pronounce the "B" on the end of dumB sometimes, by the way. I dunno, just a little thing I do. Pirates are awesome and no one can dispute this fact. I defy you to try. So don't fight it. Celebrate today! Drink some grog and eat some swill. Or is it the other way around? Anyway, get out there and buckle some dang swash! Don't get caught like this guy:

Don't become another statistic.

Blerg.

Jes, I have actually started my own Kermit the Blog. Henceforth, I shall be known as Bloggy McBloggerson, Mayor of Blogville. I do realize that I have jumped on this here bandwagon a bit late but, eh... I'm over it. Besides, just what is a "bandwagon" anyway? Is it a wagon that transports a band? And what kind of band?

Like... a marching band?

The Pride of Oklahoma?

Maybe the Sooner Schooner is the wagon that carries the marching band?

Although, I'm not sure how they could all logically fit in there, but that's just getting into semantics, now isn't it?

Dude, I'm only hypothesizing here, okay?

Or... is it a rock band?

I'm picturing the leathery-skinned, spandex-clad members of Aerosmith stuffed into one of those little red Radio Flyer wagons. All the while, Steven Tyler screeches, "Doooooooood look like-a layee-deh...
doo-doo-doo- doooooooood look like-a layee-deh!"

Here are some recent pictures of Mr. Tyler:

Anyhoo... I digress...

Let's get back to the important topic at hand: how weird the word "blog" is. Raise your hand if you think "blog" sounds goofy. I see that hand, brother. I see that hand, God blesha. Every head bowed, every eye closed...

"Blog" sounds like that goop that comes up in the back of your throat when you have one of those, erm, tangible burps.

Or maybe a log you finding floating in a bog. It's a bog-log. A blog.

I think "blog" might be the imaginary onomatopoetic sound that a lava lamp might make - were it to make audible sounds - as it eeks out those lovely and mesmerizing globules of oozing goo.

Thoughts? Rejoinders? Retorts? Abusive insults? Let's get some commentation happening here.