Thursday, January 23, 2020

Something Really Important

Okay, so there's an impeachment trial. Trump is going to appear at the Right to Life march. Last year was the second hottest on record, the first being 2016. Billionaires are lining up to influence the presidential election. Important? Not as important as this:

Planters has killed off Mr. Peanut.

Apparently he dies selflessly, saving two actors I've never heard of, and bringing his 104-year-old iconic life to an end.

And of course the Twitter trolls and Facebook fools are all cheering, because with the monocle and top hat and spats, Mr. Peanut apparently is the epitome of the one percent.

Well, fuck Planters! And fuck the haters!

You know what's gonna die, Planters? Your lousy peanuts! There are many other brands of nuts that one can purchase easily. And I'm that one. DAMN! Who kills Mr. Peanut?

Mr. Peanut is particularly beloved in this household. We've always adored food product characters, and Mr. Peanut is one of the oldest. He paved the way for the whole concept of anthropomorphism of foods, cleansers, electricity, auto parts, you name it.

When I first heard about Mr. Peanut's death, I thought to myself, "Mr. Peanut can't be killed. He's an advertising character. Aren't they immortal?"

Nope. As a matter of fact, they aren't. Who remembers the name of this snazzy chap?

And get this. The way I understand it, they are going to have a "Mr. Peanut Funeral" commercial during the Super Bowl!

Fuck you, Planters.

My guess is that a "new" Mr. Peanut will be introduced. Maybe he'll even be Peanut Bro or Ms. Peanut. Why is this necessary? Are sales of peanuts down drastically? I kind of doubt it.

Somewhere, in an upscale conference room overlooking a Manhattan panorama, some advertising executives (no doubt male and white) decided that they needed to update Mr. Peanut ... and then they came up with the brainstorm of killing him and holding a funeral for him! FOR FUCK'S SAKE DON'T BUY PLANTERS, THEY FUNDED THIS TRAVESTY!

All of us reading this blog have grown up with Mr. Peanut. He's been on wrappers and on t.v., on holiday tins and key chains. He's been a kindly part of our landscape. Isn't it bad enough that organic creatures die? Do food product characters have to die too?

I mourned the loss of Lil Bub, but her passing seemed normal and was certainly expected. This destruction of Mr. Peanut was unnecessary and cruel to those of us who loved the debonair legume.

Even if Planters miraculously resuscitates Mr. Peanut and puts him back to work, they have lost my custom. Killing off a well-liked product mascot ... how will children react?

For the love of all that is lovable, may Gritty destroy Planters and scatter its seeds far and wide on the land! This company can go to Hell on a highway of hazel nuts and rot like a skunk in the noonday sun.

I will never stop loving Mr. Peanut.

Monday, January 20, 2020

Raining on My Parade

Welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," wishing we could sneak into Davos and eat the rich! Or at least eat what the rich are eating, which I bet are some exceptionally fine vittles.

Mr. J and I are just emerging from an epic grippe. He was hospitalized with it, and I coughed for three weeks straight. Today was the first time since the Mummers Parade that I was able to get out and even exercise a little bit.

And with everything else going on in the world, today's post is yet again about the Mummers Parade.

The city of Philadelphia is quite clearly sick of this parade. They have shortened the route and put a third of the performances indoors. But the worst enemy of the Mummers Parade are some of the participants themselves.

The use of blackface in the parade has been banned since the 1960s, and even entries with "tanned" or red skin have been called into question. All Mummers know that appearing in blackface gives the press and the city ammunition in denouncing the spectacle. It also provides reason for the city's majority population groups to hate the parade.

And yet there are always two or three pinhead cracker morons who insist on blacking their faces.

The difficulty arises in the size of some of the wench clubs. (If you think of the parade as a hierarchy, even the wenches will tell you that they are the bottom feeders.) When you have a club marching a thousand people, your leadership can't police everyone. Sadly, it appears that self-policing or group admonition is beyond these fools.

The largest and rowdiest wench brigade was disqualified this year from their division for having members in blackface. The leadership of the brigade said those offenders will not march with the group again. But the damage is done. The appearance of those two or three wannabe Nazi creepers was the only thing the various news outlets wanted to talk about in the wake of the parade. And of course this malfeasance has been seized upon by everyone who wants the parade to be seen as racist, lawless, and a blot on the spotless reputation of the City of Brotherly Love.

I know there are racist and homophobic people who march in the Mummers Parade. Those people are not in my comic club. Do I stand down and denounce the event, or do I participate?

Well, I look at it like this. You go to a party, and over in the corner there's a pinhead cracker moron with a t-shirt that shows Trump dressed like Rambo, holding a semi-automatic weapon. (No lie, I have seen such shirts. Not at the Mummers Parade.) Do I get a plate of food and sit as far away as I can from the offender, or do I leave? Do I offer myself and my friends as better examples of the average party-goer, or do I just decamp in a huff?

I have no plans to decamp from the Mummers Parade. It hurts my heart to see it showered with disrespect by groups that I like (aka Antifa), but the experience does remind me that the biggest story is always the ugliest story. "Nice Mummer Lady Poses with Crowds on Her Way Back to the El Train" would hardly be something that anyone would want to read.

For the record, my club (Comic, not Wench Division) finished third. We had over 200 members in our group. None in blackface. That. Would. Not. Fly.

Thursday, January 09, 2020

The Heir Makes a Special Delivery

Hello and welcome to "The Gods Are Bored," fearfully dodging World War III since 2016! I'm the hostess with the most-est, Anne Johnson. Ask me anything! I won't know the answer, but I'll nod thoughtfully.

Some of you who blog-hop will be tickled by what I am about to say.

As I write this, my daughter The Heir is having dinner in West (by Goddess) Texas with the fabulous Yellowdog Granny! I hope they love each other as much as I love both of them.

Yellowdog Granny and I go all the way back to the dawn of this blog. We found each other early and often. Two hearts that beat as one, you might say. If you have never visited her blog, you'll see why we mesh so well if you click on the link.

Of course, I have known my daughter The Heir even longer. She has flown from Philadelphia to Waco to help create a giant Snickers bar at a Mars candy factory there. Yes, you read that right. If you're willing to live in a drafty room and trash pick all your stuff, you get cool jobs like making giant candy sculptures. And puppets for Disney.


So on my behalf, Heir is having supper with Yellowdog Granny, and delivering to her some Philadelphia Tastykakes. Oh to be a fly on the wall!

Heir says it's not so hard to get to West, Texas. I'm listening.