The Breast of Times/The Worst of Times

I'm pretty sure I just watched a trailer for the worst cinematic homicide since the television premiere of Roadhouse. I'm not sure what it is, but there's something about any film staring Nicholas Cage that makes me want to dress as an indian, swallow rat poison, slit my wrists, tie a plastic bag over my head and hang myself in a room full of burning dynamite above trap doors that drop me into a river of alligators causing the steel shoes I'm wearing to pull me beneath the waves so that if the poison doesn't kill me, I don't bleed to death from my self inflicted wounds, the asphyxiating bag doesn't suffocate me, my neck doesn't break, the dynamite is somehow extinguished and I don't drown in the violent river, the raging gators will eat me alive for appearing as an avid supporter of Florida State University. With the rapid influx of commercials, I've come to realize, and after sitting through an absolutely fantastic Superbowl XLV my realization has become a sort of solidified belief, that the primary marketing tactic employed by major corporations looking to sell ANY product whatsoever is, in fact, boobs. Honestly. (Follow along): Worried about your next root canal? Well here's a large breasted blonde in a soaking wet bikini to convince you that you should come to our dentist's office! Example II (that's 2, not eleven): Breast cancer is plaguing the world and millions of women's lives are in danger and have been dramatically altered by this horrific disease. However, as if my double J cup breasts don't obviously imply that I am not a victim of breast cancer, we'll do a strategic zoom out so you can see my entire, perfectly toned body in this ridiculously skimpy outfit that accentuates my curves like latex paint as I try to convince you to donate $1.00. In all honesty, the pitiful display of half-naked American salesmanship makes me wonder how far business will bend over to sell a product...then I saw a commercial staring some Olympic gymnasts doing back bends and thought to myself, "oh, that's how far they'll bend over." In all seriousness though, international marketing's perpetual run on sex appeal makes me wonder how absurd the televised commercials in third world countries where clothing is 100% optional would be if only they had television. Hey there hut-dwelling, fully naked, morbidly skeletal Aboriginals, want to trade your starving chickens and bone necklaces for a quality, hand made, partially used spear soaked in dingo blood?! If not, here's a fully clothed fat woman sitting inside a comfortable home to draw you from reality and convince you to buy (trade, haggle or barter) out of a sheer, unquenchable lust for the unobtainable rather than logic or necessity. In short, and what could have saved you the reading of this entire verbal slaughter I call a blog post, the fact that we see nothing wrong with perpetually complaining about the travesty we call an economy while a simple draw from reality dramatically increases a products ability to sell is sickening. Snap out of the illusion that a half naked woman holding an over sized head of broccoli means that you too like broccoli and help repair a lost society in a tragically wounded world. Thank you.