Summer’s Eve of Destruction

Señor Wences is somewhere, screaming his hands off right about now.

They were hobgoblins dispatched from the darkest dungeon of The Patriarchy.  They invented and  played upon women’s insecurities, and then dared to demand payment for protection against them.   They were thugs in that regard; the Muffia, as it were.  Their tactics achieved a level of wretchedness that surprised even long-time observers.  They sparked an outrage so intense and massive, they had to retreat back to the hateful hole from which they came.

I’m talking, of course, about the Summer’s Eve ad campaign known as “Hail To The V.”   Caving  to cries of racism (which a company spokesperson passive-aggressively terms a “subjective” matter), Summer’s Eve recently pulled a couple of its most heinous clips from YouTube and its own website.  They were indeed offensive.  Rife with “girl, please” jive talking, rapid-fire Spanglish, incendiary allusions to hair weaves and leopard-skin thongs and featuring a raging undercurrent of hoochie mamatude and chicken headery—these commercials came across as the perfect companion pieces to the Frito Bandito and Uncle Ben.  “Companion pieces” being a euphemism, of course.

Keeping true to the ethos as established by its brother in misogyny, the horror movie industry, Summer’s Eve killed off its minority characters, leaving the white version of the ad to see another day.  She can still be found at the SE website, talking smack about how ignorant and filthy women are, in the warmest girl talk tones.  By the way, the star of this ad (and her now-retired sisters) is a hand…a hand pretending to be a talking vagina.

She needs to go, too, because now it’s time for Summer’s Eve to respond to the grievances of still another minority: those of us who are freaked the fuck out by the concept of hands as vaginas.

I can barely look at my own hands anymore, thanks to Summer’s Eve.  I dwell within a Kafkaesque porno paradigm in which the simple act of utilizing my hands for any purpose whatsoever is infused with unspeakable scandal.  My brand new set of vaginas simply cannot keep their hands to themselves, those whores.  The right one is especially troublesome—she’ll pick up anything.  I’m a horrified bystander to their shenanigans: witnessing them gobbling up mile after mile of steering wheel during my commute, pretending not to notice them lovin’, touchin’, squeezing, and generally goin’ groupie on my guitar while I’m trying to play it, riding my every beverage as it were an electric bull.  At this point, holding a hot dog is simply out of the question.

That my randy handies have not yet uttered a word is a sign that perhaps there is still hope for me.   I suppose that’s because they at least have some miniscule level of lady within them that mandates that it’s rude to talk with a full mouth.  Nonetheless, I worry about what they might say if they ever found an idle moment.  One thing’s for certain: those bitches have no call to criticize my feminine hygiene.  And neither does Summer’s Eve, for that matter.

Perhaps I am a minority of one in this admittedly surreal regard.  (Story of my life.)  But stopping to re-shift that paradigm a bit: the concept of a nationwide stank intervention as conducted by vaginal hand puppets is, well, the height of insulting condescension.  The videos may have been retracted, but the poontang puppet hands have spoken.  Their message is loud and clear:  what truly stinks here is Summer’s Eve unadorned contempt towards its intended clientele.

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2 Responses to “Summer’s Eve of Destruction”

  1. Brokemom Says:

    You had me absolutely rolling wiht this post. So darn funny. I think I might stay awhile!

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