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Cottonelle: Emasculating America One Man At A Time

Cottonelle‘s cynical marketing tactics seek to reduce male testosterone, rendering this demographic helpless to resist an adorable spring-inspired pattern.

While sitting in the gentleman’s service quarters, contemplating the meaning of life, I cast my gaze upon this image of a decorative container, featured prominently on Cottonelle’s 18 pack of Double Rolls.

Cottonelle hopes to corner the market for consumers who desire a distinctive aesthetic experience for their personal bog rolls. The manufacturer hopes to persuade lovers of 2 ply to remove their bum roll from its plastic packaging, to ensconce beloved TP in a sealed, decorative container.

Cottonelle wants us to believe these festive patterns add beauty to the water closest while the roll awaits deployment to the dispenser, where it endures final indignation when stripped, folded, crumpled, wiped, and flushed.

Straights and Gays wouldn’t be caught dead with such frilly crap in their johns.

When male breeders want something cheap and pretty, they hit the bars and start buying doubles. And while Gays demonstrate greater understanding of color and beauty in a domestic motif, they don’t hesitate to draw the line at poor taste. Decor whore alarms crank up to no. 11 when a trite pattern resembles Andy Warhol’s technicolor yawn, following another all night drug binge at The Factory.

Capitalism and consumerism have conspired once again to create a new and useless product. I could make a better canister from Reynolds Wrap and a coffee can. Discerning aesthetes can swap tin foil for duct tape, adding custom zazz with a red Sharpie.  Men who appreciate the hardness of a durable tool, will pay extra for an air-tight, indestructible container with extra space for nuts, bolts and screws. Behold “The Man Can for use in your can.”

Men contemplate many things when they visit the head, but fanciful ambiance ain’t one of them.

Honestly, Cottonelle should thank their lucky stars that men even wipe up after themselves. Who is  the market demographic for this bizarre product and foofy branding? Follow me, if you dare, into the home of an elderly matron. Don’t breathe too deeply through the nostrils!

That odoriferous assault on the olfactory gland hits you like a haymaker punch of competing scents with a sweet and sour miasma of sugarless gum, antiseptic spray, fried bacon, nail polish remover, and the funk of tired old skin. Check out her garishly appointed restroom, where on top of the neon pink, poofy toilet tank cover you will find one or two froufrou containers.

Stalwart men of virile blood visit such places only when compelled by passive aggressive mothers, but they escape at the earliest possible moment to fill their lungs  with reassuring breaths of fresh smog.

Johnathan Adler: Pop Culture Art House Goon & Taste Murderer

Who is this Jonathan Adler, Priest of Pithy Pastels, and cheap ass tchotchkes? Google his name for images to discover a body of work devoted to all things bright and tacky, with ritual homage made to nick knacks and uncouth color.

Adler’s design sense scrapes the sticky ooze of a retro 60’s, pop culture pretense that begs us to find sentiment in his factory fed inspirations.

Obviously Warhol informs Adler’s design sensibility. However, Adler doesn’t lampoon the art industry with creations that carry a complex and subtle political message. Warhol grew rich satirizing industrial society’s cynical attempts to mass produce creativity, market ideas as popular meme, and turn a profit through sloppy ideas extruded by machines.

In contrast, Adler has joined the evil art-for-profit combine, and spends his time churning out tacky crap destined for Good Will Industries, where sweet old ladies can’t wait for his next product line to hit the shelves. How  ironic that Adler embodies all things that Warhol satirized and hated.

That’s it, I am about to smack Adler up and pull his man card. Jonathan! You come out of that bathroom toot sweet! This is gonna hurt me a lot more than….no, skip that. This is just gonna hurt you, period.

 

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