February 13, 2004
ACHTUNG, ASSHOLES
So I'm watching a Bellsouth commercial of some sort (my eyeballs were rolling from alcohol abuse, I have no idea what the actual product was) and I looked at the grandfather figure I suppose was talking to his grandkid and thought "I know that fucker". He was in a Delta commercial about ten years ago, when he still had a little middle-aged savvy business traveler edge working. I remember him because, after the attendant gave him a pillow, he did a double take on her ass. Now he's Happy Transcontinental Granddad jabbering like an idiot after a microburst of pinstrokes to his grandchild who was transplanted 3,000 miles away from him because his son-in-law is a no-good cocksucker.
Which is my point. I already know this guy. What are these marketing turds thinking? You can't recycle commercial actors. They don't have the talent, the chops, to suspend my disbelief. It takes skill for a Sean Penn to convince me he's a different drooling spazfuck in each film he makes. That's why he makes the big bucks.
Lay off it, Madison Avenue. I can't buy your product if I don't believe that guy is a weary business executive looking at a mid-life crisis and a certain down-sizing with outdated skill sets and a hungering need to pound down five vodka tonics on the red-eye and try to score some pussy off a flight attendant half his age. I bought into that character. That's why I flew Delta. Now I learn he's a hack who's pretending to be some holographic nonexistent baby's grandaddy. Bullshit, says I.
And the American Express girl, who toothsomely told me she could take it right over the phone? I'm the proud owner of a Green Card, a Gold Card, and a Blue Card because of those ads. So imagine my rage when I saw her pop up as a detergent whore the other day.
Listen: Commercial actors are the slop-bucket fetchers of the acting world. A nickel a dozen. I expect fresh meat when you're trying to foist your half-assed products on me.
Get with the program, nutsacks.