From Lou Reed to Lava-Lamps

...get hung, get hip, get laid, get rich, get duped, get drunk, get in, get out, get cool, get this, get that, get yer ya yas out and get fucked.

Junkmail ruleth the mailbox.

Advertising ruleth all else.

Like the new Bon Jovi album (all feather-weight sincerity), junkmail and its accompanying glam like tentacles called advertising is yet another reminder of where it absolutely isn't at.

For a start, junkmail kills trees and it also kills the postman's back.

Not that Bon Jovi's responsible for the Rain Forest or Postman Plod. They may be inadvertently responsible for having people believe they were hair-dryers in their past life; but it's a well known fact that the environment just ain't Bon Jovi's thang.

Moreover, advertising et al kills what's left of (real) free choice. It also destroys one's (essential) free roaming spirit.

D'ya think Sitting Bull received junkmail on the upcoming tomahawk sale?

Course not, and he was better off for it.

But junkmail and leaflets and flyers and posters and small aircraft advertising dentists - not to mention Zeppelins advertising the latest range of toilet bowls - should be considered the scourge of the nineties.

One walks by Macys during rush hour.

Both Broadway and 34th Street stink of piss. The sun beats down. The busker sings House of the Rising Smoke on A Stairway to Freebird; and, is needless to say, in bad need of a key-change.

Betwixt dodging cabs, bums, pervs and a cigar wielding cornucopia of middle class Fergie types in search of a personality ('tis in the perfume/after-shave departments they believe), some humble looking kid from Honduras will thrust a leaflet into your hand which reads:

Visit Our Triple XXX Porn Shop on the Corner of Shaft and Suck. All The Best Videos. Free Snapple Spunk Upon Entry.

Now, for all said Honduran kid knows, poor man Homer was just on his way to buy a bagel with cream cheese.

That was it.

Now all of a sudden, Homer's hormones are doing the rhumba 'cause he's reminded of how his wife likes to dress up like Gerald Ford every other Wednesday. Thus, before you can say devout Republican with his underpants over his head (for no apparent reason), herds of Homers (replete with erections) are charging down 34th Street mowing down anything and everything that stands in the way of their bonesque voyeuristic passion. This includes tourists, cops, small children, hookers(I), politicians, paraplegics, scaffolders, Elvis impersonators, and a menagerie of others...

And we wonder why rape is a problem!

Not that advertising is responsible for rape - cause it isn't (is it?).

Well lets just say that in certain instances, it certainly doesn't help.

Like when you're walking through Times Square and a cleavage the size of Norway sways above you in the breeze. Or, when you're sat on the subway and nigh every other advertisement above you depicts shag-like innuendo.

It could be a picture of a pen. Or a picture of a drain. Or a collection of words designed to attract your attention.

What they're all ultimately saying is: YOU TOO WILL HAVE YOUR COCK SUCKED ON A VERY REGULAR BASIS JUST SO LONG AS YOU BUY THIS PRODUCT.

There are female equivalents for sure, but let's face it, advertising has primarily always been aimed at men - 'cause they supposedly earn the money right?

Things are obviously changing, but for every eye-liner ad, there's a hundred ads depicting bored nymphettes - all coquettish and clinical to boot - that SUGGEST "buy this ladder and I'll blow you."

Hmm...that reminds me.

It also doesn't help when you're on a diet and some great fat cunt comes on telly eating a hamburger that's bigger than his whole head!

So, junkmail and advertising - what is it good for?

Absolutely nothing.

Say it again.

Junkmail and advertising - what is it good for?

Absolutely nothing.

Say it again.

Junkmail and advertising - what is it good for?

Absolutely nothing.

Say it again (repeat endlessly unto death).