Pizza Hut Launches New Line of Bad Grammar

Have we just given up completely on language? It’s troubling enough that people are buying their meals from the Pizza Hut counter at Target, where pizzas and pasta mingle alongside moist glistening hot dogs. But do the Pizza Hut folks really think it sounds cooler to the kids to say they want to “Plus Up” their meals? “I’m wanna plus up my food box with breadsticks.”

Change My Pitch Up! Plus My Sticks Up!

Change My Pitch Up! Plus My Sticks Up!

I can only imagine the phrases that missed the cut in these marketing meetings:

  • I’d like to “More On!” my meal with some Cinnamon Crust Nuggets.
  • Let me “Extra Do” that pizza with another, larger pizza on top.
  • Could I “Barf Include” a side of Pepperoni Pods?
  • And I’ll give mine some “Fatitude” with quadruple cheese and cheese.
  • Sure, I’ll “Go All Insulin” with the Alfredo Keg.

Now watch John Mulaney decide between salad or fries.

Taco Bell Grilled Stuft Nacho: Food for the Statutory Rapist on the Go!

This commercial has annoyed and amused me for a month or so. Taco Bell introduced a new foodstuff envelope called the Grilled Stuft Nacho. The ad makes scant mention of what’s in it or what it tastes like, focusing instead on portability as its most desirable characteristic.

So, who does Taco Bell think this on-the-go edible nacho purse would appeal to? Perhaps the businessman seeking a quick bite on his way to a meeting across town? Maybe the mom with the kids in the car coming home from soccer practice?

Well, no. Taco Bell has a different demographic in mind: The high school kid who’s fucking your daughter. In the ad, we see an older teen boy in close up, running frantically in slow motion. He looks back over his shoulder and then we see a father, slobbering with rage as he pursues the teen down a sleepy residential street. The voiceover says what we couldn’t otherwise believe Taco Bell would want us to think: “Why would you ever need to eat nachos on the go? Let’s say her parents came home early.”

Is this really the brand identity Taco Bell wants?

“Once you’ve stuft her taco, grab that Taco Bell Grilled Stuft Nacho you keep handy by the window for your hasty departure. You’ll need all the energy you can get to escape a brutal assault at the hands of a maniacally enraged dad who just caught you sexually violating his daughter.

And what young predator has time to sit down for a meal? You’re going to be busy pumping your young date full of Fireball shots, just in case your AXE Body Spray sex cloud doesn’t completely overwhelm her defenses.

And at just $1.29, you’ll have allowance money left over to buy those Roofies from your uncle Randy who drives a van. Taco Bell!”

Tiny Mazdas, Fast Times and Fickle, Fleeting Love

I went to Auburn my freshman year, about a two-hour drive southwest of Atlanta. I also had long, heavy, wavy brown hair. I drove a tiny Mazda RX-3, about the size of a large top-loading washer, but it would absolutely haul ass. My friends and I called the car The Blue Flash. (Also, in the south, we frequently say things such as “haul ass” when referring to automobiles.)

I was there summer quarter and embarked on the drive home to Atlanta one stifling hot Friday afternoon after class ended. To achieve maximum horsepower and velocity, the car did not have air conditioning. So I was blasting up I-85 N, boom box in the back seat blaring Rush’s Caress of Steel album on cassette, singing with animated vigor. A car, a Honda if I recall, pulled alongside on my right, with a lovely coed driving and an equal cutie riding shotgun.

Please Don't, Judge

Please Don’t, Judge

(If you have seen Fast Times at Ridgemont High, you probably know where this is going.)

To keep my thrashing windswept locks from battering my face while driving, I pulled the majority of it into a wad on top of my head with a big green butterfly clip. So as soon as I looked over and made smiling eye contact, I realized I probably looked like a skinny female meth addict at a laundromat. The Mazda and my pride decelerated as I let the girls drive ahead. I did not throw fish out the window.

Alas, judging from the lonesome loser in this 1973 Mazda RX-3 commercial, nobody got pussy in that car. (For the record, mine was not the wagon. I’m not sure if that helps or hurts my case.)

Hmm…the rotary engine runs so quietly, hot women will deceive you with false affection and sexual provocation in an elaborate ruse to steal your car. Mazda RX-3! See also: BOING! BOING! BOING!

Finally, and we know you’ve been waiting, here’s a cool live 1976 performance by Rush of Caress of Steel’s opening song, Bastille Day, apparently recorded before color movies were invented. (I think the song is about the day the French drove out Johnny Depp.)

“Why Are You Ruining My Life with Your Asthma?” GlaxoSmithKline Shames the Afflicted

Asthma is the least of the woman’s problems in this commercial. Before she sees her doctor or visits, she should leave her whiny, self-absorbed, unsupportive husband, quit her job and tell her sister or friend or whoever that is to eat balls. She’s surrounded by nasty, boorish hags and wankers. Even her little daughter is a guilt-peddling esteem leech.

Seriously, the husband could not be a bigger dick. “Your debilitating, potentially deadly asthma attack that jarred you from sleep as you clutched your chest and choked in terror to draw air into the constricted airways of your lungs WOKE ME UP AGAIN! Now what are you making for breakfast?”

And the husband and sister double team the woman when says she likes to get outside. “Unless it’s ‘too cold,'” the husband says with disdainful air quotes. “Like the last three weekends!” sister-bitch chimes in. Hey, sorry I didn’t feel like going to the Chili Cook-Off because I couldn’t reliably fill my lungs with air! And you are so right to doubt my determination that the air was cold enough to exacerbate my condition. That’s exactly the type of thing I like to lie about so this affliction that I did not choose can trap me like a prisoner in my own home! You still read me like a book after all these years!

And are we so cynical that we assume children have no empathy for their own parents? A five-year-old hates it when her mom is sick. Little kids will invent shit to make their parents feel better. “Mom, I found this pine cone with magic medicine in it. You can’t see the medicine, but if you just hold the pine cone, you’ll be able to breath again. God said so.”

Instead, this redrum-hallway shame pug makes sure mommy knows the full extent of her joyless, disappointing childhood.

Then her boss shows up to helpfully remind her that “You missed the meeting this week AGAIN!” You know, I manage people in my job. If someone came to me and said, “Hey, I’m having a really bad time today and would prefer not to sit through a meeting and self-consciously suck on my inhaler in a room full of my colleagues,” I’d certainly understand. I can’t imagine saying anything besides, “Take care of yourself, hope you feel better. It’s just a meeting, I’ll catch you up later.”

The kicker is the closer. “I don’t use my rescue inhaler a lot.” Sister-bitch: “It depends on what you mean by, ‘a lot.'” Hmm, I don’t know, how about every time I can’t breathe because of this asthma that I wish more than anything I didn’t have? Is that a lot? How often am I inconveniencing you by drawing breath?

Isn’t there a better way to extol the virtues of asthma treatments without portraying sufferers as a dreadful burden on the people around them?

Listeria on a Stick! The Chocolate Wonderfall at Golden Corral. And Oasis Reunites!

Golden Corral apparently has bought a 2012-GOP-presidential-candidate-sized block of television airtime to advertise its new Chocolate Wonderfall, a provocatively unsanitary bubbling cascade of gooey brown bacteria. The idea: Patrons submerge berries, cookies and other confections on sticks in the flowing chocolate, and then, apparently, consume them. (Fondon’t! Fondon’t!)

The commercials seem to run incessantly now, especially on the cable news channels:


There exists no doubt that this chocolate waterfall will trigger a much more violent chocolate waterfall later. Can you conceive of a more disgusting buffet line concept than this geyser of gastrointestinal distress? A churning wellspring of warm, sticky dessert syrup continuously attracting and recycling torrents of sneeze juice, dust and child germs?

And maybe a half of a second will pass from when a five-year old lays her eyes on this until she sticks her doll’s head into the chocolate sugar lava. Don’t just take our word for it; here’s the top comment on the YouTube post of the first commercial, which made us laugh until we cried when reading it aloud:

“So I went to a golden corral today, and I tried this out. Right as I dipped my marshmallow into it, some little kid reached over the little metal railing and just stuck his whole hand into it…”

And the Golden Corral reply to the comment offers scant solace:

“We strive to provide the best possible customer experience for all of our guest [sic]. However, with something as popular as this it is difficult to catch everything.”

Gaaahh! I just took a shower after reading that. This from a restaurant with a history of serving up the all-you-can-e coli buffet. And don’t forget the salmonella special right here in Georgia a few years back.

You’d think that such a track record would inspire tremendous caution with food safety and public health. Or maybe Golden Corral just realizes that the American buffet-going public has a short collective memory and an unrelenting lust for novelty, chocolate sauce and type-2 diabetes. Bacteria be damned! These patrons in a follow-up commercial certainly seem excited:


I hope that guy’s cowboy hat can catch some barf.

Finally, in an important aside, our good friend Tim O’Shea of Talking With Tim pointed out on Facebook that there is an inevitable advertising tie-in for the band Oasis. What better reason for them to reunite than to promote the Golden Corral Chocolate Wonderfall? After all, both the band and the Chocolate Wonderfall recycle things that were once good (Beatles songs, chocolate) and turn them into horrible abominations that send us running for the toilet. We close with some lyrics from the Oasis hit “Wonderwall,” reworked for Golden Corral:

Today is gonna be a day that you’re probably gonna spew
By now, you surely feel foul
From the chunks you inevitably blew
I can’t conceive how anybody
Eats that chocolate goo that’s trickling down

Yet maybe, after eating steak and gravy
You’ll heed the call, of Chocolate Wonderfall

Campbell’s Soup: Also made with meat from carbon-based animals

We’re sure others have noted this before us, but tonight a TV commercial bragged that Campbell’s makes its soups with “farm-grown ingredients.”

Our expectations for Campbell’s soup already linger pretty low. Still, Campbell’s impresses us with the brazen suggestion that the benchmark for soup quality and wholesome yumminess is having ingredients grown on a farm.

“You won’t find back-alley carrots or interstate-median herbs in Campbell’s soups. Our produce comes from a special place—the place where produce comes from. Does Progresso make its minestrone with beans and potatoes formulated in windowless concrete laboratories staffed by inmates from federal psychiatric prisons? We can’t say for certain, but rest assured that we pack every can of Campbell’s soup with vegetables picked by migrant workers aching with sweat, crippling joint pain and financial desperation. And they picked those vegetables on a farm.”

Here’s a super bonus from our extensive research for this post: A couple of eerie old animated commercials featuring the Campbell’s Kids.

In the first commercial, two creepy tomato cannibal twins cheerily boil a naive, trusting Midwestern farm tomato alive. (“Welcome to the jungle baby!”) Apparently the sun is complicit in their blood lust:

In the second commercial, two new serial agri-killers harvest a colony of fat, smiling mushrooms for Campbell’s delectable and apparently hallucinatory cream of mushroom soup. If the kooky kids didn’t already motivate you to bolt to your corner grocer, just wait until the closing shot in which a gelatinous glob of gummy fungi concentrate slithers from the can like an alien afterbirth. A special containseggs prize to the person who can best articulate the sound it makes. Bon appetit!