How’s that for a sensational headline? Pretty solid, right.

But what is this dick mouth I’m speaking of? Is it an STD? Some sort of fungus? Or is it simply the non-medical condition that makes people say ridiculously dickish things when microphones are in front of them for a prolonged period of time?

Yeah, it’s that third one. And Mitt Romney is really suffering from it lately.

As we all know by now, last week Mitt proclaimed how much he loves to fire people… which is a pretty dickish comment, especially coming from a guy who made his entire fortune by basically firing people.

Then yesterday the Mittsy Bitsy Spider said this in regards to the nation’s growing focus on income inequality:

“You know, I think it’s about envy.”

You see Mitt thinks the incredible disparity between our nation’s “middle” class and rich folks is simply being highlighted because of envy. Take Mitt for example, the only reason people keep knocking him is because they are jealous of him and his good hair millions. It’s not because he’s a waffler, or a robot, or a waffling robot.

So why is his comment dickish?

Well, it might not be fair to say this but it’s dickish because Mitt is filthy rich. If Rick “Everyman” Santorum came out and said something like this it would be an insight. A stupid insight, but an insight all the same. But because Mitt is rich, his calling the attention on income inequality “envy” just sounds like a shitty, bratty kid.

We’ll have to see what Mitt’s dick mouth says next. Stay tuned.

I’m not intentionally trying to pile on the Chipmunks but I feel like this needs to be reported.

I recently brought home a delicious bunch of bananas from my local grocery store and noticed something on them. Check it out:

You see that? The little sticker on there. The sticker that is normally reserved for a simple logo seems to have been replaced by something else. Let’s take a closer look.

It’s a QR code for the new Alvin and the Chipmunks film that’s offering a ringtone in exchange for scanning.

So why is this stupid terrible marketing?

1. It’s a QR code… on a banana. In the Hall of Fame of stupid places to put a QR code this is pretty high on the list. The top spot still goes to highway-side QR code billboards, but seriously, why is there a QR code on the completely disposable outer shell of my potassium-packed produce? Am I supposed to scan it in the middle of the store? Or wait until I have the bananas at home on my counter? Is my kid supposed to scan the QR code as he takes the banana out of his/her lunchbox? What is the point?

2. What does Alvin and the Chipmunks: Chipwrecked have to do with bananas? I understand that when you have a HOT property like the unanimously abysmal Chipmunks franchise you want to market it hard across as many channels as you can but this one just doesn’t make sense. Chipmunks are not related to bananas in any way. It’s forced. And stupid. And terrible. If it was movie about Chimp Monks I might allow it. Can you imagine that? A sweet monastery full of chimps, chanting out pop songs while making PG-rated jokes about eating bananas and MONKey-ing around. That’s box office gold, and in that case the banana placement would actually make a tiny bit of sense.

3. Why is the QR code offering me a ringtone? Do people still seek out ringtones? And if yes, do they really seek them out at the same time that they’re thinking about chowing down on a banana? I don’t think so.

So, in summation, Chipmunk ringtone QR codes on bananas are a really stupid idea. I just hope they don’t get a good response from this because if they do no produce or food item will be safe.

And with that, I’m done blogging about the Chipmunks. I promise.

There’s a lot of hyperbole on this blog. A lot of “worst evers” and “shittiest of all times”, but this billboard, from Safe Auto Insurance, is hyperbole free. It truly is the stupidest billboard ever made.

Behold.

Sigh…

I’m not going to comment. I’m just going to let this thing speak for itself.

But just know that this isn’t Safe Auto’s first foray into the competition for stupidest billboard ever made. Last year they entered THIS into the ring, and while it’s definitely scarier, it’s not quite as stupid, so toupee man is our clear winner.

It’s just so bad. I can hardly believe it’s real but it is. Honestly, it makes me feel like I’m wigging out.

*RIMSHOT*

Yeah, sorry. I guess horrible hair puns are contagious.

It’s tax season. I get that.

What I don’t get is why every time I log into my yahoo email I see this little old lady gesturing towards me. The ad really raises some questions for me. Like:

• Who is this woman?
• Is she some sort of tax expert?
• Is she related to Dr. Ruth?
• Is she giving me a thumbs up?
• Where did she get that incredible shirt?
• Is “EVERYONE” underlined to imply that this service is for everyone and anyone, including weird, old over-gesturers like this broad?
• What does she have to do with me getting my max refund?

All in all, I just don’t get it. These sort of ads are everywhere on the Internet, but I usually don’t see them with such a huge placement. Is this really the best TaxACT could do? Were there no graphic design students available? Did no one at TaxACT headquarters have a nephew who knew his way around “the photoshopper”?

So many questions without answers. At least I know one thing:

I won’t be using TaxACT to prepare my taxes this year.

–

Previously on WTF is going on in this [BLANK] ad?:

• Newport

It’s come to my attention that there are A LOT of truly awful movies being made every year. So, to better cope with this, I’m creating this new regular feature here on ITE? called “Will BLANK be the worst movie of all time?” The concept is pretty simple so I’m going to get right into it.

So, let me ask all of you:

Will Big Mommas: Like Father, Like Son be the worst movie of all time?

Let’s examine the evidence.

Like this trailer:

www.youtube.com/watch?v=o4rdlG6odfk

Uhhhhhhh… I rest my case.

Seriously though, is this whole thing a joke? Like, is Martin Lawrence conducting a huge Banksy-style prank on the world with this? Is he trying to figure out just how far he can push one joke before the entire movie-watching population rises up and mass Big Momma DVD burning parties start becoming the norm? Is he a genius or simply a played out, Dane Cookish comedian in search of some low hanging fruit? What is the deal here?

Because honestly, there’s no way this is real. Because if it’s real and the “jokes” displayed in this trailer are some of the highlights, then dear lord help us all.

• Oh! Big Momma fell on a table and it broke! What a big, fat, stupid, old bitch!!! HAHAHAHA!!!
• Oh! Big Momma grabbed her son’s (who is posing as her niece… or something) balls and his voice went up an octave! I’ve never seen anything like that before!!! HAHAHAHA!!!
• Oh! Big Momma is playing Twister with some dude who, for some reason, is attracted to her! Left hand green? More like left hand hilarious!!! HAHAHAHA!!!
• Oh! Somehow Big Momma is posing naked in an art class despite the fact that she (or he… or something) is wearing a prosthetic suit! Big Momma has a disgusting, fake, fat body!!! HAHAHAHA!!!
• Oh! Someone called her Mary J. Bulge! Get it? It’s because she’s fat!!! HAHAHAHA!!!

COMEDY!!! NEW FRESH COMEDY!!! YES!!!

So, with all of that said, will this be the worst movie of all time?

Yes. Yes, it will be.

(Until the next one.)

Here at ITE? we’ve been writing about things that we feel are a WASTE OF MONEY for ages now, so it only made sense to take a look at the other end of the spectrum in the companion feature — WORTH THE MONEY.

Here’s today’s worthwhile item:

Hardin Sweaty and The Ready To Go’s new album

Alright folks, it’s shameless self promotion time.

I, drocolate, am not just a blogger. I am also a lover, a master of accents, a butcher, a baker, a candlestick maker AND a drummer in a rock band called Hardin Sweaty and The Ready To Go.

Yes, you read that name right.

Aaaaand it just so happens that my band recently released our latest album and now it’s available for purchase out on the interwebz.

It’s called Get Your Science Right and it’s sort of like, well, just check it out for yourself.

Start by listening to this:

Ron Morriss by HSATRTG

Or go HERE to hear a few other songs (though, full disclosure, that raucous Christmas song you’ll find is NOT on the album).

Then, visit either cdbaby or iTunes to purchase a copy. iTunes is a little more convenient but cdbaby is two dollars cheaper so the choice is yours.

• cdbaby
• iTunes

After that, come to Facebook and become a fan of the band.

And then, after all of that, I’ll leave you alone.

Please forgive me for being so shameless, but when you love something you have to set it free… for a nominal fee.

Thanks in advance for all the support, and if any Creed fans get their hands on this post, PLEASE let me know what you think of my band’s music in comparison to your Lord God Creed.

–

Previously on WORTH THE MONEY:

• The actual old lady demon costume from that scary Snickers ad
• Inception
• Haiti Earthquake Relief
• HANDJOB!
• Blow Energy Drink Mix

This is not a post complaining about AT&T’s service, or their overstocked lineup of phones that all seemingly do the same things, or the upcoming slap they’re going to take when the Verizon iPhone comes out.

Nope, this post isn’t about any of that.

Instead, this post is about AT&T’s direct marketing efforts, and more specifically the direct marketing pieces I keep getting in my personal mailbox.

Let’s start at the beginning, 3(ish) months ago I got this in the mail:

Oh boy! It looked like a personal letter and I couldn’t wait to open it. At the time I assumed it was from rondostar because he always calls people “Valued Texas Resident.” It’s like his thing.

But upon opening it I discovered it was not from rondostar. Oh no, it was an AT&T direct mail ad.

I had been bamboozled! Hoodwinked! Scammed! Tricked! Marketobanged! Manipulated! Marionetted!

They got me. I was so convinced that the incredibly accurate handwriting font on the front was real, that I had opened the letter thinking it was some pen pal correspondence or a letter from my great aunty (pronounced ONTY).

Who knows though, maybe this AT&T ad is worth my time. Let’s take a look.

Ok… uhmmm… yeah. Let’s just make a list.

Why this ad is a total piece of dog shit:

• It appears it was a conscious choice to make the letter look xeroxed, which is completely insane. When I’m thinking about which telecommunications company to go with I usually don’t want to go with one that, on first glance, gives off the impression that they’re rocking a tab at Kinko’s. But I know it was a conscious choice because of all the stupid little notes that have been written all over it in blue.
• These little notes need their own bullet. What’s the narrative supposed to be here? Is it that this letter went to an AT&T employee, who then presumably kept the original for himself, marked this one up with inane shit like “That will come in handy!” and “Great for when you’re on the road” and sent it on to me?
• And the little note by the globe icon needs special attention. “I’ve been waiting for this!” For what? A little globe icon? The Internet service being offered? What? Who are you, letter mark up dude? And why are you so excited about MY potential service?
• The URL at the bottom right: att.com/iwanttoordernow. Nice job on this one. I understand that it’s supposed to be “I want to order now” but at first glance I saw “I want toor dernow,” and I don’t have any idea what a toor dernow is. It sounds Scandinavian.
• The final bullet under the (completelyfuckinghuge) price point that proclaims I can get 11 email accounts with this product. Is this actually something people care about? Email accounts? Really?

So yeah, this is a train wreck. Not only is it not a personal letter from my sponsored child in Namibia, it’s also one of the shittiest pieces of direct marketing I’ve ever seen. An ad like this should be selling something like a local lawn mowing company or a babysitting service. It should be attached to a telephone poll with little perforated pieces on the bottom offering tear away phone numbers.

It should not be from AT&T, one of the biggest telecommunications companies in the country.

But all of that isn’t the best (worst) part. Oh no. The best part is that I got the same letter two more times in the six weeks that followed that first one.

This incredible letter is SO great that they felt the need to keep mailing it, over and over.

Well, I think I’ll just keep NOT calling up and ordering their products over and over then.

Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve gotta go shave my toor dernow.

The economy sucks. We all know this.

And even I have to admit that sometimes bitching about it gets a little old.

So with that in mind, I started this feature here at ITE. It’s called “Distractions” and it’s designed to help take your mind off of our current economic shitstorm — if only for a few minutes.

DISTRACTION #25: Endhiran AKA The Most Balls-To-The-Wall Indian Action Movie Ever

You deserve a nine-minute break, so just press play and sit back.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=svOlz2ei4Yk

From this clip we can see that this movie contains a lot of incredible things, including:

• A dude jumping through a car and then road surfing on top of some poor bastard
• A giant robot snake made out of dozens of robot humans
• Aishwarya Rai
• Some stellar skunk hair
• A disturbing amount of dead law enforcement
• A robot managing to wield and fire, like, 50 guns at once
• The bizarre dubbing that sounds vaguely Russian
• Magnets

And that’s just scratching the surface. I can’t even fathom how mind-explodingly cool the full length feature must be. Endhiran (which I assume translates to “Robot” in some language) is the most expensive movie ever made in India, and it’s also the country’s highest grossing, so it’s sort of like their Avatar.

But unlike Avatar, which cost anywhere between $250 and $500 million (no one really knows… it just coast A LOT), this movie got made for $40 million American.

So not only is it jam-packed with incredible, over-the-top shit, it was all done on a budget. And in this economy, we can respect that.

--

Previous distractions:

• Album Tacos
• Kristianne Baille
• Antoine Dodson
• Baby Preacher
• Mel Gibson Rant Quotes (Presented By Kittens)

This is an exciting story so I’m going to launch right into it.

I’m so proud of Alabama, and I don’t feel that way very often.

A law firm in Montgomery, Alabama called Beasley Allen recently filed a lawsuit against fast food giant Taco Bell claiming that the beef in their products is not technically beef at all. The lawsuit claims that the beef in your fourth meal Chalupa is only 36% ground beef, which falls under the USDA beef requirement of 40%.

Now, before I move on, I want that to sink in. The USDA has created a standard for what qualifies as “real meat” in our country and that standard is a paltry (not poultry) 40%. And according to some brave litigators in Bama, Taco Bell is somehow missing this extremely low mark.

It’s like Taco Bell is a nine-foot-tall dude who can’t dunk. It’s ridiculous.

Beasley Allen goes on in their lawsuit to say that the beef is not meat at all but should actually be called “taco meat filling” instead. The law firm is setting out to either force Taco Bell to increase their beefishness levels or stop dropping the B word when describing their offerings.

Obviously, Taco Bell is not cool with this because who wants to eat something called the “Seasoned Taco Meat Filling Grilled Stuft (their spelling, not mine) Burrito”? Well, actually I’m sure some people would still eat it.

We do live in a post-Double Down world after all.

My recent history with Taco Bell.

This is as good a time as any to recount my most recent Taco Bell visit, and the events that followed it.

Let me warn my readers that if you have a weak stomach you may want to close this window now. If you’re not a little bitch, however, then read on.

A few months ago, on the day before my birthday, I decided to grab some Taco Bell for dinner. I was on my way to  meet some friends and I wanted to get a quick meal in me before the night kicked off. I ordered a Mexican Pizza and two Taco Supremes (or would that be Tacos Supreme?). All three of these items contained a hearty amount of …uhhhh… beef. I ate them and felt satisfied.

But then the night moved forward.

And as it did I noticed some discomfort in my tummy. The Taco Bell didn’t seem to be digesting. Instead it felt as though it were growing steadily. Imagine eating a football whole. That’s what it felt like.

A few hours went by and my health continued to plummet. Finally, I said goodbye to my friends and switched my focus to getting home and sleeping off whatever Taco Bell demons I had absorbed. I got in my car and set a course for my humble abode.

Unfortunately, the taco meat filling in my stomach had other plans.

About five minutes after leaving my friends the pain in my gut became so great that I had to pull over for fear that I might pass out. As soon as I pulled the car over and turned it off my body took that as a cue to evacuate all of the contents of my stomach. Thankfully, the first burst was a dry heave. This gave me ample time to swing the door open and get out.

That’s when I ruined my shoes.

I don’t think I need to get into the details so I’ll just say that I puked. A lot. And after puking I felt magically better. It was as though I had swallowed some poison and HAD to get it out of my body by any means necessary to continue living.

My personal opinion since then has been that Taco Bell equals poison. So today, when two friends sent me a link to this story I knew I had to report on it. It was my duty, as both a citizen journalist AND a fake beef consumption victim.

Oh, and one final fun note about this tale: When I got back into my car, sporting vomit soaked white Vans (Mmmmm…) and uber-halitosis I looked over at the clock and it read 12:04.

Vomiting on the side of the road was the first thing I had done on my birthday.

So, what now?

Beasley Allen is holding strong on their lawsuit, despite threats from Taco Bell of a countersuit. And since this story hit the Web today they are bound to get A LOT more attention now than they may have ever bargained for.

But I want to go beyond the lawsuit. I want to know what’s actually in this taco meat filling.

Taco Bell claims that in addition to their seasoned beef they use food “extenders” like water, Isolated Oat Product, wheat oats, maltodrextrin, soy lecithin, anti-dusting agent, autolyzed yeast extract, modified corn starch, sodium phosphate and silicon dioxide.

Doesn’t that just make your stomach growl?

But all of those extenders are in there in addition to a beef percentage Taco Bell claims is at 40%. But what if it’s actually at 36%, as the lawsuit claims?

What the hell is that 4%?

Here are my official guesses:

• Styrofoam BBs
• Asbestos
• Shredded pieces of marketing and/or creative briefs (cause there’s no way the advertising agencies that put out shit like THIS ever used either)
• Horse feces
• Minced bits of unsold Gorditas from the previous week
• Dog
• Mexican cartel murder victims (where do you think they all disappear to? Think about it.)

I invite you to enter your own guesses in the comments below. And please don’t eat at Taco Bell. Smoke a cigarette instead. You just might live longer, and you’ll vomit less.

So I’ve been out of the blogging game for a while and I’m a little rusty. I’ll admit it.

So, like a professional baseball player taking some at-bats in the minors, I too am easing my way back by taking on some lesser competition. And when I say lesser competition, I of course mean Creed.

Good old Creed. I’ve pooped on them so often in this blog’s (semi)illustrous history that it just feels right to end my laziness-fueled hiatus by pooping on them once again.

So what’s the story, then? What has Creed done this time?

Well, nothing.

Let’s get into it.

Norway is the happiest place on Earth, unless wolves are chasing you.

Our story starts with 13-year-old Walter Eikrem. Little Walter was walking home one day in the Norwegian town of Rakkestad when some wolves happened upon him. These wolves wanted human blood and were not going to stop until they cracked the top off of a man-sized, blood filled juice box.

But young Wally didn’t panic when he saw the wolves. Oh no. Instead he took out his smart phone, unplugged his headphones and blasted the Creed song “Overcome” as loud as possible in the direction of the wolf pack. The wolves listened for a second before they “turned around and simply trotted away.”

So what does this mean?

It means a lot of things.

It means that:

• Walter Eikrem has terrible taste in music.
• Wolves have good taste in music.
• Creed is relevant yet again.
• Creed is relevant yet again because even wolves don’t want to be in the same vicinity as their shitty music.
• There is a good chance that somewhere right now a pitch meeting for a Creed vs. Wild-type show is taking place. Imagine Creed front man Scott Stapp yelling in the face of ferocious animal after ferocious animal until finally he comes across a deaf one that rips his larynx out during prime time on Spike TV. That would be solid gold. Seriously.
• Despite being named the happiest country on Earth, Norway is definitely not the most culturally advanced.
• Nickelback is going to be HUGE in Norway in about two years.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, below is a video (with lyrics!) for the wolf-repelling Creed song. Give it a listen.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=ShBiBub-_UE

The wolves heard lyrics like “I’m entitled to overcome!!!!!” and “Say goodbye with no sympathy!!!!!” and went home to their sweet wolf cave homes to try their paws at becoming songwriters. Because if this vile, lowest common denominator yuck can be professionally produced and released whatever they can bark out is bound to be an improvement.

And with the words “vile” and “yuck” brought together in one sentence to describe Creed I will conclude this first minor league assignment.

It’s good to be back.

Oh, and fuck you, Creed.

Just for the sake of history, here’s some of my past articles about Creed:

• Scott Stapp is destroying America
• WASTE OF MONEY: 75-Cent Creed Concert Tickets
• WASTE OF MONEY: Creed Concert Tickets
• WASTE OF MONEY: Creed’s New Album

Dear 2011,

I really don’t know where to begin.  For starters, I should admit that I was arguably the most excited human being on earth that 2010 was coming to an end. I mean, I almost hit an infant in the head with a full beer can on my birthday, for Christ’s sake (but that’s another story for another day). You, sir, were supposed to be my beacon of hope – the year where all of the ridiculous things that happened to me the year prior would suddenly vanish and all of the painful memories were null and void! But no. You couldn’t even let me be happy for three hours, could you?  COULD YOU????

I hope you rot in hell, 2011.

Yours Truly,

FakeBritishAccent

I should really take some time to explain my almost immediate disdain for 2011:

Remember that show California Dreams?  It was always much easier to feign hatred for the show with your friends than it would have been to spend hours trying to explain to them why that show rocked so hard.  That’s a lot like New Year’s Eve to me.  It’s much easier for me to sit around complaining about NYE because of the buildup and the cost implications and the fruitless efforts to be in the right place at the right time.  But secretly, I love NYE, and my friends are all full of shit.  Buildup?  It’s New Year’s, not acne.  Cost Implications?  I can’t think of a better reason to spend a lot of money on absolutely nothing!  As for the fruitless efforts to be in the right place at the right time – you just described every Friday night of my life since May 2003.

All of that said, this was arguably the greatest send-off ever.  It was also the most abysmal ring-in ever.

I’ll just start at the beginning.

Due to a drink experiment gone wrong the night before, I woke up Friday afternoon with a headache that induced vomit.  My hangover had a hangover.  I watched When In Rome. That bad.

At 2:37 p.m., I received a phone call from Kevin. Kevin was without a sweater that he hoped would complete his outfit for the night (Ladies: I want it to be known here and now that guys also worry about what they will wear for NYE – fortunately, we have the luxury of avoiding sparkles and 8-inch pumps.). He informed me that I would be accompanying him to Northpark Center, where we would look for him a sweater, and we would look for me some oxyconton.

At 5:21 p.m., we left Northpark. Kevin found his sweater, and I found a pair of blue suede loafers that were on sale.  Sometimes, God proves his existence to me in the form of painfully ironic context clues.

7:45 p.m.:  I’m out my door en route to Brad’s house. Brad and his girlfriend were riding with me to meet our friends at a snooty restaurant for overpriced drinks and not enough food (whoever invented tapas is a stupid jerkface idiot…face.).

8:58 p.m.:  Unfortunately, I had no time to finish someone else’s side items, because I had to rush back to Brad’s house. I sent an Evite earlier in December informing everyone that the party we were hosting was to start at 9 p.m. This left us little time to devote to dinner. No matter – Brad’s girlfriend and I had to concoct a New Year’s punch that consisted of a liter of vodka, a liter of rum, fresh fruit, kool-aid and lemonade – this would later come to be called “Where’s My Dignity? Juice”.

9:10 p.m.:  Concoction mixed, guests begin to arrive. Effects of third glass of punch begin to be felt.

9:25 p.m.:  More people, more punch, more hilarity. At this point, those who stayed longer at the restaurant arrive hammered.

9:45 p.m.:  Final wave of guests arrived, and I had switched to beer in an attempt to slow down my metabolic rate. That school of thought proved later to be completely erroneous and surprisingly backward.

10:30 p.m.:  If there is a single person at this party that isn’t drunk, they probably weren’t invited. Someone makes note that we still have an hour and a half until the new year, and rather than slow us down, that nearly incites a riot of flying alcohol. By this time, my friend Mike is teeter-tottering on the cliff of consciousness.

11:30 p.m.:  The first wave of guests have left the party to go to the bar. This was a good move in the long run, since the place was packed after midnight, and they were lucky enough to save us some room at a table.

11:59:59 p.m.:  Happy New Year. I make out with Girl #1.

12:10 a.m.:  We stumble to the bar, but I forget about the cover that I warned everyone of hours before. I am informed by a stranger that an ATM exists on the opposite side of West Village.

12:25 a.m.:  I finally make it back to the bar. I am greeted by a shot, a fresh bourbon/coke, and an attractive brunette’s hand on the back of my neck.

12:26 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #2.

12:49 a.m.:  New drink. Exit the dance floor. Enter the weird.

12:50 a.m.:   I make out with Girl #3, who also happens to be my good friend who moved to Houston five months ago.

1:30 a.m.:  I swear – most of what I remember from the bar took place on the dance floor, which is crazy; not because I don’t like dancing (believe me, I do), but mainly because I know for a fact now that only about an hour went by where we were in that area of the bar. Strange, huh? I know.

1:58 a.m.:  The bar is closing. We make plans to after-party at my friend Martin’s house. This is fairly run of the mill – Martin throws after-parties quite often. No big deal.

2:27 a.m.:  I walk into Martin’s house, and I see my friends CeCe, Katie, Jenny and Nicole sitting on the couch.
2:28 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #4 – CeCe.

2:28 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #5 – Katie.

2:29 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #6 – Jenny.

2:29 a.m.:  I make out with Girl #7 – Nicole.

2:30 a.m.:  I process basic math and ascertain that New Year’s is the greatest holiday ever.

2:40 a.m.:  I make a routine lap around the house. People are either having a great time or are passing out where they stand.

*AUTHOR’S NOTE TO THE FAINT OF HEART:

Please stop reading here. Call it a wash. Great NYE, right? Right!!! AAAHAHAHAHA, I LOVE NEW YEAR’S!!!! LET’S JUST STOP READING NOW, OKAY???? YAY!!!

…you didn’t listen to me, did you? All right. It’s your funeral.

At around 2:45 a.m., I retreat to the kitchen for a new beer, when I notice that my friend Scott is nowhere to be found. I was worried, because the group that came with me to this after-party from the bar isn’t part of this particular social circle, so it was important to me that I keep tabs on them. No matter – I’ll smoke a cigarette and find him afterward, right?

Wrong.

I walk outside on the patio and see my friend Scott rested against the side of my house with my friend CeCe.

And my friend CeCe is giving my friend Scott a blowjob.

…

…

It was like watching the dinner scene in American Beauty…if meanwhile, Kevin Spacey was getting blown by a friend of yours named CeCe.

After she was busted, CeCe makes a beeline toward me as I storm back into Martin’s house. She tries to explain to me that they were just having fun and she made a mistake and things were really weird and he tasted like a saltine cracker (which I found puzzling, since Scott is black), but by this point, I had already tuned out and grabbed my keys.

I wish I could make this up. I wish I could tell you that all of this was a joke, and that what 2011 really gave me at 2:45 a.m. on January 1 was love at first sight, or a promotion, or vaginal penetration. But instead, I got the one thing that I couldn’t want any less: a front-row seat to Peter North’s next mediocre screenplay.

I hope your New Year’s celebration ended a little better than that.

Welp, that’s it! Talk to you later!!!

Hello there, ITE family!

Just like our real family members, you’ve been ignored for a while in favor of the hustle and bustle and binge drinking of the holiday season. Not that it’s any excuse, but we’ve been a busy, busy bunch of hooligans these days. But as the New Year is a time for renewal and resolutions, this downward trend will not stand. Instead, we’ll coast into 2011 with a holiday-focused post and keep our content coming hard, strong and steadfast in the future. Yes.

Now for some holiday merriment!

In this economy, and especially during this here holiday season, we’re thankful for our jobs. They’re (sometimes) fun and they give us money. Above all, they keep us busy as hell. That being said, we’ve filed this post under the recurring, “You can’t spell advertising without ITE” umbrella. Why? Because all three of the founders/creators/babymamas of ITE are in the sheisty business of …no, not used car sales, but advertising. And since all advertisers are just out for themselves—or so we hear—we’d like to ask for your help. But we promise it will be A) free, and B) entertaining enough for this often-boring week between Xmas and New Year’s. Enjoy!

Shameless Advertising Agency Holiday Efforts Plug #1!

First of all, our very own rondostar would like to request your help in his quite ridiculous efforts to win a “Light War” between his (5th) and the 6th floor at his agency. His shit is so damn legit even Agency Spy got hold of it. So check out these videos and then be a baby Jesus lamb and vote for floor number 5 to win. Maybe then rondostar will shave that ridiculous facial hair he’s got going on. Please.

VOTE for Floor #5 and RONDOSTAR!

Shameless Advertising Agency Holiday Efforts Plug #2!

Secondly, if you’ve got another spare few minutes to dedicate to advertising agency-style holiday waste-of-time merriment, check out this tasty treat brought to you by breadwinner‘s agency of late. If you like what you see, feel free to (please!) fan this page on facebook, and also to even follow the efforts here on twitter. Why so vague? You’ll see…

Check out what breadwinner's been up to...

But the fun’s not over yet!

Last but not least, drocolate has a little bit of holiday cheer to share with you as well. Here he is, as a ghostly ginger elf photographed inside his current copywriting stomping grounds.

This creature is stirring all right.

Sleep tight.