Because you know how much I love this.
Ok, so you also know ticked I get that half-naked women occupy all the print advertising space around these parts, selling everything from windows to butter? (With just one notable exception that I’ve found).
Well, move over bacon! There’s something leaner!
Are you loving it? This bathroom fixture shop decided it was totally logical to put a half-nekkid man with a mysterious black panel covering the goods (are those pants in the shower? or are you just happy to see us?)
Look how happy he is! The semi-jazz hands! The spunky smile! He is just so overjoyed that he gets to be sprinkled with water while he tries to sell you a shower. Hell, while you’re at it, why don’t you just hop on in and join him? Maybe if you buy the shower you get a free go with our fine sprinkled friend. Women and all my gay brothers out there, have at it!
But surely you didn’t think the geniuses over at Taffo Funeral Services were going to leave us hanging for long, did you?
Of course you didn’t.
Their latest brain-child involves a series of ads with this brilliant tagline: “Work to live, not to die.”
Heh heh. Now, folks—if I worked for Taffo? I’d be in that copywriting brainstorm meeting busily scribbling on my notepad, proposing aforementioned little jingle and then muttering evilly under my breath: “But, really? On second thought? Please. By all means. Go ahead and die. More money for us. Taffo: It’s good to die.”
Always stay harnessed to your scaffolding. You don’t want us to drop in on your house. “Work to live, not to die.”
Thank you, oh thank you, Mr. Genius-Taffo-Man. Your advertising keeps me entertained to no end. I might even go so far as to say, Taffo, you folks are truly taking DEATH to the next level. Perhaps even, maybe just might, could I even, oh why the hell not:
Death. It’s the new black.
Holy bejeezus, people. There’s another Taffo gem that talks about wearing a gas mask and I don’t know what else, so you don’t die. “Don’t die,” they seem to say. “And yet, should the unfortunate happen and you do actually, well, you know…kick the bucket…come to us. We’re the death experts. Monthly installments available.”
Insomma, che ve posso dì, ragà?
And I’m sure you have absolutely NO interest whatsoever in my most amazing weekend, do you? What happens when frazzled working single mother goes out for a night on the ol’ town and manages to stay up past–gasp–9 pm?
Well, ok. But let me indulge you anyways. I, for one, absolutely positively without a doubt concur on my multiple best friends’ choice of best barman/mixologist in Rome and general overall winner for totally-sexy-and-smart-hot-and-charming-man from
Somalia Subaudia (I had a slight misunderstanding, so sue me). And I’m sure you wouldn’t want a photo of said man either, now, would you?
Oh ok, fine. Happy to oblige. Here you go:
Now, if that’s a bit blurry, it’s either because he’s so sacred that I think it would be sheer blasphemy to actually try to feature him in my humble trash-talking blog. And secondly, it’s probably because I was getting close to two (and/or three) sheets to the wind (where the hell did THAT expression come from?) at that point. Thanks to maestro mixologist and his utter perfection at his craft that he’s been honing for 12+ years, he found my drink. He’s good like that. You tell him about you, and he serves it up. I was a study in contradictions, which really put him to the test. And the result was, in a word, nirvana. If it wouldn’t offend my readers’ delicate sensibilities, I might even say it was orgasmic, but that my dear friends is quite another story. Anyhoo, in case you’re wondering, I’m an AVIATION kind of girl. A real WWI bomber. LOVE, love, LOVE.
Folks? Go ahead and knock on wood for me, and go ahead and make those horns, and while you’re at it, go ahead and even scratch yourself in broad daylight in a public place, all of which clearly ward off any potential bad luck. But I’m here to tell you: life is good.