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Thursday, February 06, 2003


Ad It Up, the Sequel Dept.

You've seen that Verizon commercial? Yeah, that one where the sensitive guy with the guitar is thinking that his girlfriend (or ex, the backstory isn't really clear; after all, this is a 30-second commercial--let's just say for the sake of argument he fucked her best friend.) He's all torn up inside. The Girl won't return any of his calls...she's screening him with the answer machine. She's not replying to his emails. He's taking a bath with his guitar, because the only way to shake the kinda blues he's got is to strap on his six string and let the Calgon take him away, wondering if there's any way he can get off by jamming his member into the axe's sound hole. But he's beyond even the restorative power of Mr. Bubbles. Running through the background of all this wrenching heartache is a beautifully Muzaked version of "All I Need is a Miracle," sung by some recording journeyman whose last gig was undoubtedly a very heartfelt rendition of "Summer of '69" at the third wedding of a Toledo receptionist and her plumbing-supply salesman groom. At the end of his romantic rope and needing a fresh approach for his borderline-stalking behavior, he goes to one of those novelty photo booths and takes just the most darling tiny little pictures of himself, his puppydog eyes pleading to be let out of the backyward and into the house. Then he puts them pictures on a piece of paper and faxes them to The Girl. All previous forms of communication have met a heroically unflinching wall of I-Dumped-Your-Cheating-Ass resolve. But the fax catches her off guard, and she's moved to sprint off through a monsoon to throw her lips back into the face of Mr. Guitar and His Multimedia Assault of I'm Sorry. Off-camera, just as James Earl Jones is proclaiming something about Verizon changing our lives for the better, the reuinited-and-it-feels-so-good couple are engaged in a sweaty bout of make-up coitus, with her trying extra hard not to think about whether or not her best friend's breath smells like his cock. He's thinking, "I gotta remember to thank the Staples clerk for that fax machine trick."

You've seen it?

Yeah, I fucking hate that commercial.

But I cry every time.

About this site

This is the internet home of Mark Lisanti, a Los Angeles writer sometimes known as Bunsen. He is the founding editor of Defamer, a weblog about Hollywood, where he now serves in the nebulous capacity of "editor-at-large."
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