This is why I shouldn't be allowed to analyze commercials

If you watch nearly as much television as I do, then you have seen multiple Christmas commercials around this time of year. Some are for cars, engagement rings, babies (I don’t remember exactly what the baby commercials are for; when I see a commercial with a baby in it, I instantly glue my eyes to the television screen broadcasting the beauty of the baby and then promptly stare at my empty uterus. Guys, you don’t understand. Girls, some of you don’t either, but I’ll write about this in a future blog) but the most commercials I have seen have always been for phones. Awhile back there was that campaign for a Go-phone with the claymation family akin to The Island of Misfit Toys; then there was the whole Merry Chrismahanukwanzakah rally. This year, one Christmas commercial in particular has grabbed my attention. It’s a T-Mobile commercial staged in Santa’s workshop. If you don’t remember the one I’m talking about, or just want to see it to refresh your memory, watch it here:

I don’t even know where to begin. If you like this commercial, I’m sorry. It’s not that I hate it, it’s that I find a few disconcerting qualities about it:

Why are all the elves forced to have pink hair?
No where, in any Christmas story, is pink hair present. Obviously, from an earlier post, I love the color pink, so it may seem odd that this bothers me. And I understand, T-Mobile’s company color is pink, but it’s just mildly creepy to me that ALL the elves are forced into having not only their hair colored pink, but also their eyebrows and facial hair. They are all wearing the same white uniform, shouldn’t that be enough? As a connoisseur of elves everywhere from every region, I can almost 100% guarantee you that those are not regulation elves anywhere. Most elves are allowed to practice whatever hair color they are comfortable with, which leads me to my next point.

Where the heck is the Big Guy?
And no, I am not talking about God, although, it’s clear He’s not present in this sick commercial, either. They have Santa in a “to-go” phone version of Santa, but not the actual guy. If it wasn’t clear before, this screams that this is not a regulation Santa workshop. There’s something fishy going on here. If Santa’s not present to check, well, the presents, then who is going to do it? Definitely not the Head Elf, he has cotton candy for hair. He’s been brainwashed like the rest of them. And not that chick either. The one in the dress, yeah she’s a good way to segue into the next part.

Uh, this isn’t necessarily a “family friendly” point.
But, ever since the term “4g” came out, the only thing I heard was “orgy.” And no, it’s not because I have a dirty mind, I’ve had some people agree with me. And once you hear it, you can never go back. Even when the FOUR is very clear, I still only hear “orgy.” So these impostures for elves keep singing, “Walking in a 4g wonderland,” and I only hear very dirty, dirty things. And then it makes sense to me. This girl is pretty. If I can see it, I know those creepy elves see it. This commercial is just all sorts of subliminal messages, trying to trick the viewer into devious plots involving T-Mobile phones. If this doesn’t concern you, this next point definitely…. will not. I just find this next point hilarious.

Go look again, at the 20 second mark.
I noticed this probably around the 39^th time I saw this commercial. Who is that? Oh! It’s none other than Beans from the early 00s show, Even Stevens. For those of you who didn’t watch it, well then, just go to the conclusion. For those of you who did, join me in laughing. He looks the exact same. Sad to see his acting career didn’t really take off.

So all in all, I’m sure you can argue that I spend way too much time thinking about these things, but someone has to. There are little kids everywhere who will be heartbroken if, they too, realize the indecencies Santa’s good reputation is going through. Anyways, have a Merry Christmas, Happy Hanukah, Fun Kwanza, and Happy Holidays.

This is why I feel bad for Katy Perry

The first time I heard “I Kissed a Girl,” I was convinced Katy Perry was a one hit wonder. Then, she kept coming out with more and more songs. And I thought, “You know what? Good for her. She’s sassy and not afraid to offend people.” She had this crazy style and was not a conventional artist. Her outfits were wacky, her voice was different, and she obviously wasn’t afraid to have a poor dye job for that sad excuse for black over natural blonde hair. I feel like she was marketed to become the next Madonna. And then you know what happened? Lady Gaga, that’s what happened. Her outfits were even more wacky, her music was even more different (according to some), and her hair was an even worse excuse for dyed hair. She kind of stole Katy Perry’s thunder.  

Then the next thing to happen, people started comparing her to Zooey Deschanel. Sure, they have similar appearances, but don’t even get me started. Zooey Deschanel is way prettier. They both sing, they both act… sort of, they both have the whole dark hair light eyes thing going on. Then it comes out that Katy Perry used to be a Christian artist. A simple Youtube search will show that her days as a Christian artist prove that she wasn’t a very good singer. Also, her birth name is Katy Hudson and she had to change it because of Kate Hudson, who was already huge in the media. 

Next, I find out that the poor girl starts dating and gets engaged to a hobo off the street. I thought, “How sweet, she’s taking in a homeless person. I guess she’s still a Christian.” And then I find out that Russell Brand isn’t a hobo. He permanently looks like that BY CHOICE. Maybe she thinks she has to settle? I don’t know. It just seems like he would give her an infection of some sort just by her smelling him. So I really feel very badly for her.

And then I remember she’s a huge super star and makes millions of dollars and I stop feeling sorry for her and start caring about things that actually matter.

This is why I won't give my number out to rednecks

I live in Texas, so naturally there are a few hick-talking, cowboy-loving, shotgun-owning residents. I would know; my brother owns like 7 horses.  But not everyone fits these stereotypes. Sure, there are a few vehicles straight out of the Dukes of Hazzard with the confederate flag plastered on the top of that Longhorn orange. And I actually get the reference, so you know I’ve lived in Texas my whole life; but I’m not into the whole country scene. Yes, I own cowboy boots and wear them with dresses; however, I don’t like the music and am not a huge fan of barbeque (to the shock and disappointment of my dad). My mom is from the part of Texas closer to the Louisiana boarder. Sometimes her accent comes out and my brother and I make fun of her southern draaawwlll. You know, the one that you’d expect if you went to a Southern Baptist church and heard the pastor exclaiming, “Praise be to the Lawd.” Not Lord. Lawd. Side note: we aren’t Baptists and not all Baptists speak that way. Most of the family members on her side carry that accent, which is a far cry from the Hispanic side of my dad, but that’s a whole different story, for an entirely different time.

Ironically, my brother, Aaron, my mom, and I were driving home from a trip to Houston. We tend to blast music, or talk, or comment about the UFOs we see in the sky abducting herds of cows in the middle of No-wheres-ville, Texas. I also have a problem with checking my phone. This goes for anytime. You can call me, I usually won’t answer. And it’s not because I’m either “sleeping or praising Jesus” as my voicemail insinuates—although, I do sleep an awful lot—but, it’s because I am just really bad about taking my phone with me. So my phone rang, and naturally, I didn’t answer. Boy, am I glad I didn’t. When I checked my voicemail 10 minutes later, I had a rollercoaster of emotions. At first I found it hilarious, then I found it very threatening and feared for the safety of my life, and then I settled into a nice punch-drunk stupor of excitement at the treasure I had just stumbled upon.

I know absolutely nothing about this “George” character, but I learned a few things:
1. It was a wrong number.
2. He was very angry I didn’t answer and guessed that I was asleep.
3. He’s been looking for the person he meant to call for 3 weeks.
4. He owns a gun.

I played the voicemail to my brother and mom and they, I assume, had the same rush of emotions. At first we thought he was calling a hit on someone. I mean, he talked about needing this person to do a “job” for him and he also said he’d “get his shotgun and pepper my butt,” so it was just a miscommunication, or we heard it wrong, or whatever. To say the least, it was the highlight of our car ride. I’m also very concerned for the wellbeing of the person he was trying to contact. 3 weeks? Come on, George. People don’t just avoid you for 3 weeks. He’s either mad at you (and you know what? I would be too. You threatened to shoot him and wanted him to do some yard work or something around the house. Also, you dialed the wrong number and didn’t even bother listening to my voicemail greeting, in which, it’s clear the owner of the phone is a girl. This shows you aren’t a very good listener. I feel like this relationship isn’t going both ways) or he’s missing. George, you have bigger fish to fry then whatever you need done around the house. You need to work on your people skills, and potentially call the cops to report a missing person. 

I’m tempted to call back and tell him this. But then, I’m afraid he’ll pepper my butt with his shotgun. Never underestimate a redneck.

 Want to hear a clip of George/ see my reaction?

This is why I need to go to rehab for my addiction to the color pink.

I’ve always felt the need to have extremes of everything. I will really passionately love something, or I will very angrily and strongly dislike something. Okay, so I don’t like to “hate” anything (except for Nickleback, but I feel justified in that). This makes it sound like I am very political and protest in the streets and started the whole “Occupy Movement”, but I am just referring to things like my favorite color. I have an addiction problem to the color pink. It all started when I was 5 and in kindergarten. It was Valentine’s Day and some little snot-nosed kid had the audacity to run up to his little sister and say “Your favorite color is pink, right?” 

Now, it’s not that I didn’t like this girl—except for the distinct trait that is inherently placed in all females at the time of conception which dictates that any girl must have a beef with any other girl that they know absolutely nothing about. I don’t even remember this girl’s name. At the time, my brother, Wesley, was going through this phase where he only liked bands that didn’t have a huge fan base. Once they got big, he stopped liking them. He was like a hipster before their time. So I guess that makes him the ultimate hipster, since he was a hipster to hipsters.  Well, he had a major influence on me. Once I learned that someone else loved something equally or more than me, I stopped loving it. Not all things, though; I wouldn’t give up loving Power Rangers or Lisa Frank. I was 5 and it was the 90s. I didn’t quite understand all the rules of being a hipster, yet. 

Once this boy decided that his sister was in love with the color pink, I was instantly done, the way that Kim Kardashian was done with her sham of a marriage in a matter of 9 minutes. I was not having it. None of the other girls in my class loved the color purple. So bam. Purple ruled my clothes and backpacks and Lisa Frank pencils for a good chunk of my life. I know what you’re thinking: it sounds ridiculous that I am putting so much importance on a color, but I’ll get to that. So for a good majority of time I secretly and longingly looked to my former favorite color as it taunted and called to me.

So why all of a sudden to I have an addiction to the color pink? Well, I can’t tell you exactly what it was. Maybe it was time for a change. Or maybe I realized a lot of girls now really don’t like the color pink and somewhere in my deep subconscious I still like that. In rough times, some people turn to drugs, or drinking, or listening to Justin Bieber on repeat, but I turned to filling my life with pink. It makes me happy, and at least it’s pretty. It’s not like I’m a crazy cat lady. Unless, you know, the cat is pink. 

When I was living in the dorms for college, most of my stuff was pink. When I moved back home we decided to repaint my room, and you guessed it, my walls are pink. My phone, my pillows, my purse are all pink. My TV’s black, but when I saw a similar one that was pink a part of me died on the inside. This is probably more relevant to girls. Guys go through this sort of thing, right? But with MW3 and… eating? I don’t know.  What do you want from me? It’s a beautiful color. To deny it would be to deny the very core of who I am. Okay, so maybe that’s a bit dramatic, but whatever. I know, I need help.