Some of my long-time readers might remember a rant I posted in 2009, about how much I freaking hate the Charmin toilet paper commercials with those damn stupid bears. Well, consider this Part 2. Or Number 2, if you like.
First, the bears are still around, and their ads have gotten even more disgusting. Now we have Mama Bear, going through the laundry and horrified because she discovered a little extra something on Junior Bear’s tighty-whities. EWWW! Gross! Of course, the answer to this problem is not teaching the little @#$% to have better hygiene, but to use Charmin toilet paper. And they even have a new slogan: “We all go — why not enjoy the go?” Oh, please. It’s a bowel movement, not a vacation on the Riviera.
But wait. It wasn’t bad enough to have animated bears advertising the joys of absorbent toilet tissue. Now we have a perky blond Brit named Cherry Healey, running around annoying people everywhere, talking about Cottonelle wipes. Her slogan? “Let’s talk about your bum.”
She appears in various places, such as an outdoor marathon, chatting up strangers about the state of their bums, and bluntly suggesting that they could be cleaner. It’s… disconcerting, to say the least.
But last night was the kicker. John and I were watching TV and one of those Cottonelle ads came on. This time, our Cherry was in a bowling alley, of all places, chatting with a bunch of good ol’ boys in bowling shirts about how squeaky clean their bums could be with Cottonelle wet wipes. And then — wait for it — she stood at an empty lane and uttered the line:
“I insist on a clean alley every time!”
We turned to each other, wide-eyed. No. She did NOT just say that on national television.
For Christ’s sake. I understand that some people do seem to have a hygiene problem. I’ve heard a lot (on Fetlife, and other kink venues), about some pretty gross stuff that tops encounter when they unclothe their bottoms. Really?? We don’t live in a third world country, folks. We have more than enough access to water and soap. There is no excuse for that. Have some compassion for those with bottom fetishes and present a clean one.
But do I need to hear about this while I’m trying to enjoy The Big Bang Theory? Must it invade my living room? I happen to observe proper hygiene, thank you very much. I don’t need blue bears and chipper Brits lecturing me about it.
I never thought I’d say this, but sometimes I wish ads would return to the good old days when they used euphemisms like “bathroom tissue” and no one talked about the state of your back alley.
Oh, but wait. It gets worse.
Flipping through a magazine the other day, I encountered this woman’s idiotic face, maniacally grinning at God’s knows what.
What is the Butterfly, you might wonder. I Googled it, and nearly croaked.
It’s a new, um, personal liner. But, unlike other sanitary liners, this one goes between your butt cheeks. It’s the discreet new product for ABL.
OK, WTF is ABL?
Accidental Bowel Leakage.
I read further. Apparently, this is a thing. One out of every five women over 40 suffers from it, for various reasons. And I guaran-damn-tee that not one of them is happily beaming like Renee, above, no matter what kind of damn pad they’ve discovered.
You know what, kids? Do me a favor. I’ve talked many times about how getting old blows, but this is the last straw. If I ever develop anything like this, don’t bring me a box of Butterfly pads. Bring me a bottle of sleeping pills. And after I’ve gone to sleep, just to make sure, take a gun and shoot me in the head.
I don’t want to read about this stuff. I don’t want to see it on TV. I don’t care how cute you make it look. Shut. The. Fuck. Up.
Me, cranky? Maybe a little. My bum needs a different type of attention.