Skip to main content

Ads that I like #66


It is no surprise that people who write advertisements have a tendency to be quite liberal [ahem] with the truth. My experience in researching and writing this series on vintage ads (thousands of hours every single week alone!) tells me that of all the shysters, scammers, tricksters, con artists, deceivers, dissimulators, fablers, fabricators, fabulists, falsifiers, fibbers, phonies, charlatans, double-dealers, four-flushers, griftera, smooth operators and flim flam men that I've seen, those involved in the promulgation on the filthy habit that is cigarette smoking are the most brazen offenders.

Yet it is far worse than a decadent art rolling around in it's own filth. We know the great crimes of the ad man, that is no surprise. But to drag the good name of dentistry through the mud is a bridge too far. I am not sure which of the nineteen thousand, two hundred and ninety three dentists were willing to put their name to the outrageous claims made above, but they have shamed their profession. In much the same way as a previous advertisement made me never trust a woman again, I shall never look at a dentist in the same way from this day forth.

That is a travesty. Thank you faceless ad man, thank you very much.

Comments

Miles McClagan said…
Meh, that's nothing, in the 50s they put radiation on peoples face in the name of advertising..

http://www.tvparty.com/emcomm.html
Well, no one has ever said an ad has to be true, it's just that the public forgets that.
Kris McCracken said…
Miles, I swear by Chernobyl dirt myself. I sprinkle it on my Weet Bix.

Boise Diva, buyer beware!

Popular posts from this blog

Something unpleasant is coming when men are anxious to tell the truth.

This is the moon. Have I mentioned how much I adore the zoom on my camera? It's Theme Thursday you see, and after last week's limp effort, I have been thinking about how I might redeem myself. Then I clicked on the topic and discover that it was BUTTON. We've been hearing a lot about the moon in the past couple of weeks. Apparently some fellas went up there and played golf and what-not forty-odd years ago. The desire to get to the moon, however, was not simply about enhancing opportunities for Meg and Mog titles and skirting local planning by-laws in the construction of new and innovative golf courses. No, all of your Sputniks , "One small steps" and freeze dried ice cream was about one thing , and one thing only : MAD Now, I don't mean mad in terms of "bloke breaks record for number of scorpions he can get up his bum", no I mean MAD as in Mutual assured destruction . When I was a young man you see, there was a lot of talk about the type of m...

Hold me now, oh hold me now, until this hour has gone around. And I'm gone on the rising tide, to face Van Dieman's Land

Theme Thursday again, and this one is rather easy. I am Tasmanian, you see, and aside from being all around general geniuses - as I have amply described previously - we are also very familiar with the concept of WATER. Tasmania is the ONLY island state of an ISLAND continent. That means, we're surrounded by WATER. That should help explain why I take so many photographs of water . Tasmania was for a long time the place where the British (an island race terrified of water) sent their poor people most vile and horrid criminals. The sort of folk who would face the stark choice of a death sentence , or transportation to the other end of the world. Their catalogue of crimes is horrifying : stealing bread assault stealing gentlemen's handkerchiefs drunken assault being poor affray ladies being overly friendly with gentlemen for money hitting people having a drink and a laugh public drunkenness being Irish Fenian terrorist activities being Catholic religious subversion. ...

Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it...

I still have the robot on the job. Here you can see the Tasmanian Museum and Art Gallery . And here is a poem: Soliloquy for One Dead Bruce Dawe Ah, no, Joe, you never knew the whole of it, the whistling which is only the wind in the chimney's smoking belly, the footsteps on the muddy path that are always somebody else's. I think of your limbs down there, softly becoming mineral, the life of grasses, and the old love of you thrusts the tears up into my eyes, with the family aware and looking everywhere else. Sometimes when summer is over the land, when the heat quickens the deaf timbers, and birds are thick in the plumbs again, my heart sickens, Joe, calling for the water of your voice and the gone agony of your nearness. I try hard to forget, saying: If God wills, it must be so, because of His goodness, because- but the grasshopper memory leaps in the long thicket, knowing no ease. Ah, Joe, you never knew the whole of it... I like Bruce Dawe. He just my be my favourite Austral...