During some errand running today, I had stopped by a local inconvenience store to acquire a caffienated beverage to help me get past the post-lunch Nappies (where all the blood rushes to your stomach to aide with digestion - leaving you with this light-headed desire to crawl under your desk. I'm convinced the world would be a happier place if people took more naps.)
I damn near had the front of my RSX cleaved off.
I had followed some goomer in some hideous gray work-type truck (lots of panels and racks for hoses and what-not) into the joint, he pulling to one of the gas pumps, me going around to the store proper. Only he must've decided at the last second that he really didn't need gas, because he shoots out of the gas island like, well, like he was shot out of a cannon, and into the parking spot I was just about to turn into.
Like I said, damn near took my front end off.
I didn't say/do anything because let's face it, if you're willing to gun the engine and launch a truck of that size into a parking spot regardless of who might be trying to get there first, then chances are you don't much give a damn what that other driver thinks of your Dale Earnhardt impression. And I didn't have time anyways, I needed the caffiene to be in full effect for my mooting at 1pm.
So I proceed to the fountain drink area and acquire a satisfactory amount of carbonated beverage. But by the time I get to the cashier's counter, there's GoomerBoy, standing there in his grungy blue jumpsuit and white rubber boots, having a fit about the store being out of his preferred brand of unfiltered Death Sticks. He was muttering something to the effect of "I don' want none of that gawl-damned filtered sheet, gimme some of those [inaudible] Camels." Apparently his griping had gone on during the entire time it had taken me to acquire my carbonated beverage, because the cashier had a look on her face that suggested that she was about to take the nearest carton of Death Sticks and plant them in an orifice of his known more for having smoke blown up it, than out of. I shant elaborate.
It's at this point I finally glance outside at his gray work-type truck, and to my surprise, it's not some sort of sewage service establishment. It's in fact a pesticide service and I'm struck by the perfect symmetry. Unsatisfied with simply working with and rolling around in toxic chemicals, GoomerBoy wants the complete experience. It made me wonder whether he was trying to outsmart the Grim Reaper by saturating his tissue with all sort of compounds to make them immune to decay.
But what really struck me was the slogan that was emblazoned on the side of the truck:
Scientifically Directed.
Leaving the grammatical issue of a sentence fragment aside, the slogan begs the obvious question: As opposed to what? A wizened 200-year old Feng Shui master from the Rozan Mountains determining the pesticide lay-lines of the yard? The most recent crop-circle patterns? A cross between a drive-by and carpet bombing? Or perhaps you just like getting up close and personal with your varmits, ala Bill Murray's groundskeeper from
Caddyshack.
Now, I don't blame GoomerBoy, he's far more concerned with his self-embalming experiment. No no, there was a Marketing Decision behind this. Admittedly, not as egregious as Nike's short-lived shoe "Incubus" (a male demon who rapes women in their sleep) or the utterly infamous Chevy "Nova" fiasco. But still, imagine if major enterprises advertised with that kind of creative thinking:
Ford Motors - Engineers design our cars
Taco Bell - We sell tacos
Dell Computers - We're faster than the abacus
American Airlines - 100% submarine free
If I'm wrong about this, someone please tell me.
The Apprentice is holding open auditions here tomorrow and I could always try my hand at a career in marketing.
