Saturday, March 27, 2010

So here's what I hate about beer commercials.

There's almost nothing more insulting and condescending than beer commercials. I hate them. All of them. The last time I found a beer commercial funny and/or engaging was when the Budweiser frogs debuted. I was like 12 and couldn't buy beer for at LEAST five more years.

So I hate beer commercials. And not just because they're misogynistic and their products (Bud, Coors, Miller) all taste like they've been injected with saline. It's also because there are two beer commercial plots*: guy likes beer more than girlfriend OR people are in a cruddy situation until the beer arrives, then it's all good. But even that's not the only reason I detest beer commercials**. Other reasons:

Unrealistically hot bartenders. I've maybe seen one hot bartender in my life. And it was a dude. Yet, in all these beer commercials there's always a smoking hot blonde behind the bar (which for some reason only has the advertised brand on tap). Never happens people. Or maybe I'm just going to the wrong bars.

Bar conversations. Have you ever had a conversation at a crowded bar and not had to shout?

I LOVE THIS SONG!!!!

WHAT?!!!

I LOOOVE THIS SONG!!!!!

OH! I LOVE PING PONG TOO!!!!!!!!

They turn up the volume in bars because it makes you drink more. It's true. So by midnight your voice is already gone because you're having a "conversation" where you're just shouting short sentences to each other. Yet in beer commercials, it's just a bunch of guys kicking back, shooting the shit.

Pouring beer from five feet above the glass. It pisses me off when they show a close up of a beer being poured into a glass. They must drop it from a cherry picker or something because it always careens down one side of the glass, splashes on the bottom and shoots back up the other side of the glass. Who the fuck pours beer like that? A stuntman? You'd spill half the beer on the floor and the other half would be bubbles. I totally wouldn't tip that smoking hot bartender if she pulled some shitty stunt like that.

People acting like you've got great taste because you ordered a cheap, shitty beer. You know the set up. There's all these handsome people sitting around, then this hot guy walks up to the hot bartender and says out of the corner of his mouth, "Gimmie a Bud Light." And everyone around him gives him a look of respect. Yeah, that's the guy! Bull. Shit. You order a Bud, Coors, or Miller at a bar after 7PM, first of all, no one around you gives a fuck because if they're sitting at the bar they've been drinking whiskey and Jeager all night. Second of all, the theoretical smoking hot bartender is thinking "damnit, this douche isn't going to tip for shit, and neither are his douchebag undergraduate friends."

So beer commercials, if you're going to be sexist and stupid and shell out an ungodly amount of money for advertising, at least mix it up a bit. I want to see a commercial where a normal looking guy walks into a bar, goes up to the homely bartender, has to shout his order of a 5 Barrel Pale Ale to absolutely no one's interest, and she pours it for him like a normal human being would. Maybe not Super Bowl-worthy, but at least give it a shot guys.

==================================

* Don't even get me started on those fucking Clydesdales. God I hate those horses so much. Am I supposed to be in awe of them like they're fucking royalty??

**Exempt: Red Stripe. Horray beer! Not only is that great, I've purchased infinity times more Red Stripe over the past 10 years than Bud, Coors, and Miller. COMBINED.

Friday, March 26, 2010

And now a word from Mrs. Supercomputer

(Ed. note: In case you haven't noticed, we've been taking a pretty severe haitus from the blogosphere. Between work, school, online episodes of Stewart and Colbert, and being the World's Second Greatest Dad - I could never match up to K-Fed - it's tough to get around to espousing our usual nonsense. So we've done what any great brand does: we've outsourced. We've had guest columnists in the past, and today we bring you a truly inspired column from Mrs. Supercomputer - with a 4 minute rebuttal afterwards. Enjoy!)

And now for some molten lava from your friendly neighborhood wife...

"Did you clean the catbox?"

"What?"

"Did you clean the catbox? You said you would tonight."

"HAHAHAHAHA!"

"What's so funny in there?"

"This announcer named Gus [Johnson] is hilarious! I mean this game is in double overtime and..."

She interrupts, "What game?"

"Whatever. And it's like someone gave him caffeine and cocaine! It's hilarious! He's like, 'AAAAAAAHHHHHH!!' It's so exciting!"

"..."

"What were you saying? Sorry."

"The catbox."

"I'll do it. I'll do it. Gaw."

"..."

"I'll DO it."

These kinds of "conversations" are the reason why I want to punch the overgrown teenager I live with (read: husband) in the nuts. The worst part? He did not attend Kansas State University or Xavier, does not care about these schools at any other time during the year, does not even know anyone that attends or attended these schools, and sometimes he doesn't even know WHERE the schools are located. But he gets all hopped up. All crazy with crazy eyes and weird giggling laughter and texts his friends more than a 14 yo girl that's bored in history class. Oh mother I want to go Kill Bill bride (when she's wearing the yellow jumpsuit) on him when he jumps up from the couch and moves in to watch the TV standing up, 6 inches from the screen.

My step-dad was sitting two INCHES from the TV when a school he actually attended was playing. He looked like his head might explode the entire time he was watching the TV. It should be said that he recently had eye surgery, but I guarantee you that even without the eye patch, he would still be two to three inches away, curled up in the fetal position with a blanket in his mouth. Sometimes you come upon a man watching a game - it should be noted that it doesn't really matter what sport - and you think he might be watching a scary movie or Extreme Home Makeover. Like he might start crying or scream or burst into spontaneous, maniacal laughter at any moment (which is usually their form of crying). When I see my husband looking like this, I usually slowly back out of the room without making any noise or contrarily, if I'm in a particularly sour mood, sigh loudly while I clean up the house around him, making sure he can hear my exasperation. And you know what? He can't hear me. He can't hear anything except the announcer going "AAAAAAAAAAHHHHHH!" and the tiny incessant beeping of his cell phone that is beeping "You-have-yet-another-text-from-Jonathan-that-pokes-some-sort-of-fun-at-whatever-sports-team-you-are-a-fan-of."

It should be said that he did, in fact, clean the catbox (and did a lot of other nice things), but damnit if he doesn't just get my blood a'boilin with them ball games sometimes.

It's like all the sports-disliking women in all the far corners of the world are bubbling under the surface of your psyche and all a man has to do is look at the game once while you're talking to him about something important - that stealing, sideways glance to check the score - and it's over. You are no longer yourself. You are no longer in control.

You are every woman looking at every man who's looking at the game.

(And now for your editor's rebuttal: Gus Johnson is a fucking national treasure. Seriously, check this shit out.


Gus Johnson is legally insane by the end of this clip. And it's awesome.


And as for the juvenile humor, well have you seen the Name of the Year bracket? If you don't laugh at the name Dick Smallberries Jr. then you don't have a soul.

Anyway, thanks to Mrs. Supercomputer for the fill-in. Bang up job. Just so you know, DMS is accepting applications.)