Well the big game is now done and gone, the prizes have been awarded (BTW, sweet ride Mr. Manning) and poor Tim Brady must be forced to contemplate his fate whilst staring at the reflection of his supermodel wife in one of the three rather gargantuan Super Bowl rings he already has. Hey, it’s tough all over big shooter but take your time. Anyway, you know all I really care about are the ads, so here we go.

I have got to start off with a moronically good spot called Happy Grad from Chevy. This ad is just freaking hilarious. It’s simple as hell – proud parents attempt to surprise their high-school graduating son with a mini-fridge....that just happens to be situated right next to their neighbor’s brand new convertible Camaro. Dumb kid mistakes Camaro for his grad gift and great hilarity ensues. I know, I know. It sounds hacky as hell but the guy playing the kid is awesome. He just sells his insane happiness so well that you can’t help but laugh your butt off at his horribly misplaced elation. His friends, his girl, everyone. And when the annoyed neighbor has finally had enough and drives off in his car the clueless grad exclaims “Hey, Mr. Johnson just stole my car!” you know it was perfect. If only the Volt had that much spark to offer.

The original Captain Kirk was back for Priceline but this time appears to be his last. In the ad he seems to give his life for the bus passengers as well as the best deal available. Was it shocking or particularly earth-shattering in any way? Truthfully, no, but for some reason whenever William Shatner shows up on TV I feel a weird compulsion to write about the man. I think deep down it’s a Canadian thing....

Okay, now I didn’t want to actually say this. In fact, when I first heard about it happening I was excited. I really wanted to love the Honda spot. The tease they offered just earlier in the week made me almost giddy. The idea was that Honda had decided to do a riff on Ferris Bueller with the man himself, Matthew Broderick (kinda, sorta) reprising his role for an ad pumping their new CRV. In it, Matthew wakes up, declares the day too beautiful to work and proceeds to phone in sick to....his agent? See, it’s Ferris, but not really. Anyway, he proceeds to run around town ala Ferris with one glaring, shocking omission: no friends. None at all. Not one. He hits all the famous movie’s notes but without interacting with any other person as a friend. Now, I know some people may name this the best spot of the game just ‘cause it mentioned Ferris but to me it was a sadly pathetic picture of who Ferris Bueller actually grew up to be: a friendless, boring, slightly chubby everyman that drives a....CRV? Yeah – they give the guy that chose a classic Ferrari for his big day off a pedestrian little CRV. OMG Honda, either the focus group you tested was high on crystal meth or they only ever watched Ferris Bueller’s Day Off with the subtitles on. You killed Ferris Bueller Honda and that might just be unforgivable.

Now, the new Pepsi spot was kind of weird. Here we had a sort of Medieval-cum-Flash Gordon sort of kingdom where the cruel king (played by Elton John) dispenses wicked justice by trap-dooring those that do not amuse him. All they want is some Pepsi goddamnit! (which for those paying attention, was my own allusion - plus mashup – to the classic Schwarzenegger quote from The Running Man) Anyway, after he dumps some jester down the trap singer Melanie Amaro steps up and belts out R-E-S-P-E-C-T, shatters some windows, and gets the grudging appreciation of the wicked king (queen?). He then offers her Pepsi for one, to which she replies, “Not for one, for all!” – tossing the single can and dropping old shiny britches himself into the dark pit below where – wait for it – a be-clocked FlavorFlav is waiting. I gotta say, the ad sucked hard until that toothless freakshow turned up. I hope he at least got lunch for his trouble. Or fillings.

Another one was a new spot for Oikos Greek Yogurt featuring perennial heartthrob John Stamos. Whatever that guy’s skin regimen is, boy does it work. The man is lovely. Anyway, he and the girl are making googly eyes at one another as they wink and tease while sharing some clearly wonderful Oikos Greek Yogurt. But handsome John gets a little too protective of his yogurt and she absolutely flattens him with a merciless Liverpool Kiss (look it up...or watch the ad). Anyway, watching Uncle Jesse get nailed so painfully was pretty funny. So funny that I bet even Bob Saget himself might take time from his never-ending line of coke and working girls to watch. Seriously, I’m told that man is truly scary, plus ten.

One of the top ads had to be the Acura spot featuring Jerry Seinfeld. In the piece, Jerry swoons over the new Acura NSX, wishing he could be the first one to own it. The salesman points to another guy and says that actually he’s first. Jerry immediately tries to buy the other guy’s position on “the list” with ever increasing bribes. First, it’s $20, then the Soup Nazi. He goes to an original Munchkin, free standup, small talk with omelette guy, a dead alien from Roswell, a fast boat and finally, exclusive access to his own network of personal Manhattan zip lines. The last one seals the deal, but only until Jay Leno rockets into screen wearing a flying squirrel rocket suit (don’t ask). The guy then gives the car to Leno (who laughs truly maniacally) while Jerry is left to commiserate with his remaining stash of weirdos. Hilarious.

Time Warner Cable cooked up a real stinker starring Ricky Gervais who is now officially two for two in letting me down. First he stunk up the Golden Globes by giving in and kissing the ring (plus a few other things) and now he does the pretty much the same for some Time Warner cash. The spot was clearly expensive but it was just so pointless and dull. And Ricky looked and sounded like a braying schmuck who was trying too hard. It’s too bad the guy’s an atheist. He’s got no one to blame it on but himself.

Oh, and for the record: who in the bloody blue hell is continuing to tell Coke that those stupid Polar bears are such a hot sell to the rest of us? Did somebody’s brother gin them up or something? That particular ad-idea ship set sail ages ago. The CGI just looks fake and strange. No one loves them! Can’t they do something besides this? They’re Coke for goodness sake. Throw more money at the problem. Maybe try a new flavour instead. That worked once, right?

Century 21 featured loud-mouth-of-the-moment Donald Trump, this time being out-negotiated by a gorgeously red-headed (yet still golden-jacketed) supposed real estate genius. She also managed to “Trump” Mr Look-at-me Deion Sanders, besting him at promoting his own home sale. Heck, she even had time to out-speed-skate Apollo Ono to close his deal. Wow! It’s like they’re so crazy good at the whole real estate thing that the actual North American mortgage meltdown never happened. Hey, wait a minute, did I dream that?

Finally, the spot of the night had to be the Chrysler one featuring Clint Eastwood delivering an American pep talk, the likes of which hasn’t been seen in a very long time. You can be cynical and call it superficial, you can be skeptical and call it ham-fisted. Hey, you can ever call it a waste of time but holy cow can that man sell an idea. Listening to Clint talk is like hearing gravel sluice through a storm drain, but the message he offered was tailor made for anyone feeling down about damn near anything. I guess Eastwood’s the closest thing the USA has to an actual leader these days so it’s just as well he took the time to address the nation during their biggest sporting event of the year. Just the fact that the man even got paid to do so just proves how much he knows what he’s doing. Forget Newt or Mitt or even whiny Barack. It’s Dirty Harry for President in 2012!

Photo: Contributed

Check back next week for the best of the rest (plus some stenchy seconds too).

Ice to Eskimos. Way back when, that was the saying. If you were so good at sales that you could sell anything, you were said to be able to sell “ice to Eskimos.” Now, before I go any further, I do have to mention that according to some, the term “Eskimo” is currently off limits due to it presently being considered a pejorative. Apparently “Eskimo” is defined as either “eater of raw meat” or something to do with snowshoes. Whichever it is doesn’t really matter. It’s been officially classified as insensitive so the word police said “no mas” (wait, is saying that insensitive now too? Geez, I’m so confused....) Anyway, the preferred term for Eskimo is Inuit, which means “people.” Now, selling ice to people is no big deal so maybe you’ll understand why I started out saying the whole Eskimo thing in the first place. Sheesh, can this PC-crap ever chew up a column! Anyway, back to the main point I was originally trying to make: when it came to crazy-good salesmen, none could match the abilities of one Phillip Hampson Knight.

Small as a boy, young Phillip turned away from contact sports and focused instead on running. He got pretty good, and took his skills to college, running the mile in 4 min. 15 seconds. Apparently, he was also pretty good at business. That set of skills took him from Oregon State all the way to Stanford where he added an MBA to his repertoire. And it wasn’t long after that the nexus of Mr. Knight’s skills finally sparked with his decision to start selling sneakers from the trunk of his old Plymouth Valiant. The man had flair, but he also tweaked to the importance of smart advertising early on. So when the young entrepreneur started getting squeezed by the company he bought his first shoes from, he declined to give in and instead went on to make his own. That same year, the Olympic trials were being held in Eugene, Oregon. Salesman Knight convinced several of the marathon runners to try wearing his new running shoes versus what they already had. When the race was over, the runners wearing Adidas all finished in the top three places, but Phil’s folks captured the next four slots. That allowed Mr. Salesman to tout that “four of the top seven finishers” in the Olympics wore his sneakers. And with that, the branding juggernaut known as Nike was born.

So it’s really no surprise when Nike shows up on the scene with something new to sell. But like always, it’s the sales pitch that gets the first attention. Make it Count is a brilliant new ad campaign from Nike that melds together an absolutely wonderful mess of pop cultural icons and events. From movies, to personalities to celebs to music to memories, this spot induces copious amounts of smiling whether you expect it to or not.

From the call to arms (of sorts) by Cyrus from The Warriors, we are immediately thrust into a mix-tape sequence masterfully gelling the visuals of Indiana Jones running, LeBron dunking, skaters skating, Dorothy and the gang skipping, Happy Feet dancing, tennis playing, Monty Python walking, Amadeus conducting, Mc Hammer Hammering, Popeye and Bluto fighting and Rocky chasing a chicken. There’s the Dude, Mars Blackmon and on and on and on. The amount of familiar faces and neat memories squooshed inside this one ad is incredible. It could not be more perfectly targeted at my nearly forty-one year old backside. Without a doubt, somebody’s lawyers worked overtime assembling this spot. But for what? What in heck are they even selling?

As each clip in the montage blazes past we are told what “counts” and what does not. Basically, anyone moving “counts” while those simply chilling, do not. The answer comes at the end: a brand new sports accessory for your wrist: A Nike Fuelband.

Photo: Contributed

Now, near as I can tell, the Fuelband is a fairly swish, digitally-enabled, cool-light emanating, re-invention of a pedometer. Remember the pedometer? That thing you got free in a box of Special K that you hooked on your belt to count your steps? It’s a modern pedometer, except this one comes with Bluetooth, and an app, and connects to your smartphone. And I want one like you cannot believe.

The commercial does the trick, convincing slack-jaws like me that I really do need to turn my life into a contest. A game! And who wouldn’t want to turn the daily drudge into something more fun? The idea is that you set a goal on your little high-tech wristband, strap it on and start living. As you get closer the blinking lights change color and encourage you forward, goading you into doing even more to accomplish your fitness goal. Honestly, it’s kind of inspiring in a weird sort of way. All of a sudden that broken escalator becomes a good thing that helps your count. The necessity of cleaning up dinner dishes actually works in your favor. The requirement to walk the dog is no longer hated, but anticipated. Leave it to Nike to find a way to turn the effort of exercise into fun, and profit. Like I said, ice to Eskimos.....cough, cough....I mean people.

Rebellion used to be so easy. All you had to do was grow your hair long, ride a motorcycle or cuss a lot in public. Maybe get an earring, a tattoo or even just start dressing really dark or slutty. Finding some small (or large) way in which you could effectively “stick it to the man” was as simple as locating whatever established institution ruled all and focus your hardest on defying it. Boy, have things ever changed.

Being an out-of-the-box rebel these days is near impossible. First off, everybody wears whatever they want. Haircuts run the gamut. Everybody swears like a trucker (even truckers...) and basic morality is decidedly un-determined and un-enforced. What’s left to poke in the eye? Even government is off limits because it’s become so PC and aggrieved-party sensitive that railing against the system is kind of like protesting yourself. The latest pop rebels – Occupiers – actually wanted more government. More state intrusions, more pass-arounds. That’s just weird.

You see “The Man” is not the same crew cut square he used to be. The sixties radicals (hippies) went and grew up, which means they pretty much run everything now. Think I’m kidding? Check out the pedigree of most big-time politicians and bureaucrats sporting a tie. The number with Woodstock cred and mucho experience inhaling is mind-blowing. The classic rebels are finally running the system, and they have done everything they could to make “The Man” into what they figured he always should have been.

So pity the poor teenager. What in Gaia’s name are they supposed to do to rebel? They can’t fight the system. The system gives them stuff. They can’t really dress weirder than anyone else. All their language and music and films are protected. Their rock star gods are politically connected and telling them when and how to vote. They even get condoms for free with Technicolor lessons in how to use them. How does Johnny signal his rebellion?

Enter Billycock Jeans. The brainchild(?) of two dudes named Jem and Goldy, Billycock (named after some 1800’s Manchester gangsters that wore hats called Billycocks) decided they wanted to start a jean brand that (surprise, surprise) targeted “anyone who isn’t a douchebag.” In interviews they talk rough and coarse and act rude and dismissive of most everything while still attempting to sell jeans. You see, they’re rebels – or at least they’re trying to be. To prove it they went and created a commercial that was too hot for TV. So hot in fact it got banned by “The Man” in Australia. But don’t worry. You can still see it, ‘cause we can always see it, ‘cause nothing is ever actually really banned in our current privileged existence.

The custom spot opens with a young, attractive girl exiting her car in a deserted area late at night. The music pounds as she stands up and we see she is wearing a shirt and only thong underwear. She very seriously heads to the back of her car to open the trunk, pausing dramatically to look inside. She lifts a large bag out of the trunk and puts it on the ground. Slowly she unzips the bag to reveal a similarly pretty young woman who is clearly dead. She smiles ever so slightly and proceeds to unzip the dead girl’s jeans. Then, we see her pull on the same jeans (Billycock’s of course), get back into her car and drive away. Left behind we now see a pile of dead female bodies, all missing their jeans. And now you know. The new rebellion for teens is to be a serial killer. The mind boggles.....

**WARNING:  The following video contains graphic content that may not be suitable for all viewers.

Of course they banned the ad – objectively it’s sick as hell (which was the point). The idea was obviously that once banned more people would want to see it (especially teens) and Billycock could claim the mantle of edgy-cool by being something that might horrify parents. My take? Personally, I’d love to see this ad play in primetime. You could not ask for a more perfect representation of the ultimate dead end total materialism leads to.

No, current rebellion is on life-support and patchy at best. Dupes think they’re rebels by watching Jon Stewart or voting the way P.Diddy whatshisname tells them to but in reality the world went and changed and made it too complicated for most of them. True rebellion actually requires some hard thinking and real effort. You can’t package it or buy it, or even really view it. You have to feel it – and you have to pay a price for joining in. It’s strange but as whacked out as it may seem the only group left that even seems slightly rebellious are those nerdling Tea-Party conservatives complaining about everything. That couldn’t possibly be true, could it? Where have you gone, Joe Dimaggio?

I just viewed what could be some of the cheapest, funniest, most overtly skeevy TV commercials ever produced. The objective, physical quality of them is one thing but for me, the truly dirty aspect actually lays in the sales pitch clearly delivered to sods like me: buy this all-new product or something very, very bad is going to happen to you.

Now that’s way worse than simply making some stupidly grand claim about all the wonderfulness that awaits should you deign to purchase the product on offer. Oh no – this is a bona fide threat about horrible things coming to pass should you make the egregious mistake of passing up on their generous offer to “protect yourself”. Talk about sinister undertones. By this point you have got to be wondering what in blue blazes I’m even talking about. Well, it’s all about the porn, baby. You have got to protect yourself from being associated with porn.

Back in 1998 the Internet Corporation for Assigned Names and Numbers (aka ICANN) was formed as a non-profit corporation (headquartered in Marina del Rey, California no less) to oversee various internet-related tasks previously handled by the US government. Things like ensuring the overall stable and secure operation of the internet and coordinating the global internet's system of unique identifiers, which basically means thinking up (and organizing) the numerous addresses and identifiers we have all learned to know and love. Tags like .com, .ca, .net, .org, .uk, .gov and so on are now part of our reality and we have ICANN to thank for them.

One of the more recent brilliant ideas the sun-soaked chaps in Cali dreamt up was to create a brand new domain tag that would be a game changer for internet porn. The big idea was that by introducing the .xxx domain identifier, all adult (read: hardcore porn) websites would adopt the easy-to-remember tag and voluntarily sequester themselves into a sort of digital red light district. In turn, it was believed this action would subsequently make it easier for non-porn seeking folks to block access to such domains and more effectively “protect the children.” The reality? Quite different, it would seem.

The new addresses haven’t exactly been flying off the shelves. You see, actual porn purveyors are not all that interested in setting up shop in an area that might be easier to stigmatize (and block) and would rather stay put. This means the plan to ghetto-ize the porn world isn’t working particularly well. Never fear though. There are addresses to be sold and a new target buyer is needed. Say hello to www.buy.xxx that wants you to buy the .xxx domain tied to your own name or business before someone else does. I’m not kidding.

The first ad of theirs I saw was titled “Operation: Mission Start” which featured a weirdly intense, bearded dude named Gavin wearing a bow tie and dressed in a university prof’s ex-suit-jacket. He is working as a drone at some nameless office where he is shrieked at by his abusive boss. She actually refers to him in-commercial as a “nerd with a homeless man’s facial hair.” Harpie-Boss then tasks him to find out everything he can about the .xxx domain name, screaming relentlessly at him and insisting he take two ridiculously well-endowed, short-skirted hotties with him. What her business actually may be is less than clear but his new job is not: find out why folks are buying the new .xxx domain identifier.

No question, the ads in this series are simply bizarre. In one, Gavin approaches a black street gang and wants to know why they’re buying the .xxx version of their name. They immediately take exception (umbrage even) to being called a gang, claim they are in fact an organization (script note: the huge breasted gals have run off by now) and then launch into a dissertation on the benefits they offer to their members. As the rant intensifies Gavin hauls off and smacks one of them across the face – and then realizing his mortal error runs briskly away.

Photo: Contributed

Another features a supposedly “real” businessman meeting with our bearded dude at some massive boardroom table where he calmly explains that he is buying the domain name not to establish a porn site but to protect the reputation of his legitimate businesses. While this occurs Gavin has sent his “assistants” to rub and grind their rather ample assets against the businessman, making him hot under the collar for no discernable reason. Another uses hot dog cart vendors, a bird watcher, balloon fetish and even a sheep farmer (yes, they really did go there too). Poor taste? Oh yeah, but in an oddly strange and sickly hilarious fashion.

Still, as potentially deconstructive (or just plain dumb) as the spots themselves may be, the most disturbing part remains the underlying pitch: Dear Normal Business Owner or Random Person - Buy these .xxx addresses before some low-life buys your brand or name with a .xxx tag and posts smutty pics on it. It sounds like a protection racket, and it’s being utilized by all manner of web-address re-sellers, from seemingly solid blokes like register.com or networksolutions.com all the way down to the infantile chunk-blowers “running” godaddy.com. Are regular folks really so stupid that they’re going to fall for this obviously (and extremely cynically) manufactured threat to their virtual existence? Do we really have to shell out cold cash to stop seamy sex sites from dragging our internet names through the mud? Lord I hope not but dumber things have sold better before. Remember The Snuggie? I guess we really do get what we deserve.