For the past several years, writers from Fox News to the rest of the media have said that (straight) American men are dying out … or less hysterically, we’re falling behind as a gender. We’re less likely to graduate from college, hold a white-collar job or follow the convoluted familial relations in Once Upon a Time. And now, with advances in reproductive technology and unwanted third world children, we’re not even needed for our seed.
Fortunately, there’s one segment of the population that still needs men: sh**ty entrepreneurs whose ideas were terrible to begin with or forgot to market to the hairier half of the U.S. population.
This is the story of the resulting products. Get shopping, men, or I shall surely meet you in District XY, where will be kept until we evolve the means to reproduce, Jurassic Park-style.
Axe Body Spray, which cornered the market on making young men smell like Italians, announced a new spray for women: Anarchy. The advertisement (viewable in the link) maintains Axe’s standard of sensitivity towards women by not explicitly stating that it’s for the vaginal regions.
Personally, we hope to see mirrors of their original ads in which a young woman applies Axe (not necessarily into her baby hole) and is chased down and tackled by a group of young, fratish men. Maybe they’ll do that for their next line of women’s spray, Axe: The Accused.
Contrary to what the headline implies, no, I haven’t modernized “Rock, Paper, Scissors” into a post-Victorian world. (Although there is room for “Steam-Roshambo.”)
This is actually a very simple, straightforward thesis: axes are better than guns.
As the founder of the Rick Snee Antidisestablishmentarianism Militia, I believe in the right to bear all arms, including–but only starting with–guns. At this stage of defending the second amendment, it’s high time we finally acknowledged that guns, while certainly “arms,” are kind of a sissy thing to wield unless you’re fighting the military.
You wake up naked on a couch you don’t recognize … well, not entirely naked thanks to a strategically-placed sombrero. It’s daytime, though your hot, stinging brain wishes it wasn’t, but you can’t tell the time: a VCR flashes 12:00 over and over again.
Stumbling around using couch cushions as crotch- and butt-covers, you knock over the world’s largest beer can pyramid, to find the bathroom to this mystery apartment. “PENIS” scrawled across your forehead. You pray that it’s dry erase, but your futile wiping proves that, alas, it is Sharpee. Blood is dried at the corners of your lips, but it does not taste like your own.