April 19, 2011
Like a Hollywood producer watching the heroin mix with his smoky blood, I often wonder what the future holds.
Will there be rocket socks?
Will there be sock rockets?
Will there be someone around financially irresponsible enough to help me get some of my patented sock-related inventions off the ground?
Oddly enough, though, someone has already seen what the future holds.
Specifically, they’ve seen what the future of beverages holds.
More specifically, they’ve seen what the future of beverages in 2033 holds, and which vodka was voted Number One.
I don’t know, sign. M. I.?
Svedka Vodka, for worse or worse, has bombarded Chicago with its pasty robot ass cheeks.
The city is lined with these seductive bald machine ladies of 2033 and their 11-inch Victoria Beckham waists.
Everywhere I turn, I’m faced with titanium double-D’s.
Maybe I will, sign. But, honestly, I’ll probably just end up making my next trophy wife an Argentinean who enjoys dick and fart jokes.
What I find incredible about these ads goes waaaay beyond their portrayal of women, how we should all be striving to find, or be, a disproportioned ass-wagging trophy wife associated with hard alcohol.
No, what really gets my vodka-infused robotic goat is that these Swedish bastards have traveled all the way to the year 2033, and all they’re coughing up for those of us still trapped in 2011 dreaming about rocket socks, is some arbitrary “We’re #1” award their vodka has supposedly won.
So I jetted off to Lidköping, Sweden, last weekend to confront those at Svedka Headquarters.
After battling many, many, MANY naked robot lady soldiers with a sword I dipped in Captain Morgan’s Rum, I found myself hiding in the room containing their time traveling machine.
It was glorious!
It looked like a giant upside down tumbler.
I clicked myself into the seat with an over-sized lemon twist, pulled back on the red and white lever with the olive-shaped grip, and boom-bam, I was in the year 2033.
The first thing I did was check the sizes and shapes of my moles.
Second, I made sweet love to many, many, MANY naked robot lady soldiers patrolling the hallways.
Then you’re thinking I immediately checked all the sports scores for the past twenty years, who was the U.S. president, what cities were underwater due to global warming, what the price of Apple stock was and if there’d been a Sarah Palin nip slip yet.
Good guesses, Reader of 2011, but what I actually did was seek out the Director of Marketing in the eastern wing.
His name was Bjorn Bjorkman, and his office was full of all this futuristic white furniture that floated at knee level.
“Do you have an appointment?” Bjorkman asked.
I sat on a floating white sphere and rotated myself thrice before saying, “Of course, I do, Bjorkman.”
“Well, then. What can I do for you?”
“Well, I have to ask you something that’s been on my mind for quite some time.”
“Great, great. Pardon my directness, but can you tell me what the fuck it’s supposed to mean if I’m ‘Bot or Not’ for your stupid vodka?”
“Excuse me?” Bjorkman asked, stroking his blond beard.
“Listen, dude. I’m from the past. Traveled in your time machine. Sexed up a few of your robots on the way over here. I thought I was going to run out the doors and check on some of my own sock inventions, steal the technology and take it back to 2011 so we could all hover over packs of wolves and hunt them from the comforts of our underwear, but your incredibly asinine ‘Bot or Not’ campaign has been eating away at my soul for some time now. Apparently, it’s even traveled with me in your time machine. So, please, Bjorkman. Tell me how the hell I can be ‘Bot’ enough for a vodka made from winter wheat?”
Bjorkman sat on a floating white chair and put his feet up on his floating white desk. “You can’t, my friend. It’s impossible to be ‘Bot’ enough for vodka.”
“Right? I mean, even if I was a total robot babe, wouldn’t I be drinking sweet, sweet motor oil?”
“Then, I implore you, Bjorkman. Come back with me to 2011 and stop this marketing campaign. These ads are at our bus stops, inside our favorite magazines and pasted to the sides of our buildings, and it’s literally killing us with its irrelevance. Well, not literally killing us, but it’s quite possibly the dumbest alcohol advertising I’ve ever seen, and Budweiser commercials are on every twenty seconds. Bjorkman, save us.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. …”
A hundred naked robot lady soldiers suddenly rushed into the room. My head was slammed onto a floating white treadmill and Bjorkman turned it to a weight losing setting. As my face was ground into the speeding tread, he said, “Mr. Bjoose, since the dawn of man, alcohol advertising has never made any sense. A man wants to drink, and so he does. He does not need to be reminded that there is Bud Light on the shelves. Jack Daniels has been around forever. They don’t need to advertise at all, yet they do. Now, will a man or woman drink Svedka because we put impossibly skinny naked robot ladies at your bus stops? Of course not. We do it because we have too much money and we want to keep you dumb so that you’ll associate advanced technology and your long-term future with Svedka.”
A layer of skin had been torn from my cheek, and it slapped me with each rotation of the tread, but I managed to ask one final question before I was pulled back through the building and strapped into the giant upside down tumbler: “Bjorkman! Just tell me one more thing! Is Svedka vodka really the ‘Number One’ vodka of the year 2033?”
He laughed. “Of course not. That title is held by Ocean Spray’s Frankenberry Vodka Circular Cubes. It’s absolutely delicious. Frankenberries are where it’s at.”
I woke up on a bench in downtown Chicago.
Dazed, with a bandage on my cheek, I reached for a newspaper and saw the date: April 19, 2011.
And when I looked up, I saw this:
I thought about shaking my fist in the air and screaming Bjorn Bjorkman’s name.
I thought about wearing a white robe and preaching against advanced technology on the city corners of the world.
But as I shuffled toward the curb, I felt something at my ankles.
I pulled up the legs of my pajama jeans.
Taped to my socks were dozens of bottle rockets and a folded up note.
I lit the wicks of the bottle rockets and opened the note. It read:
Invest in Frankenberries. And fuck your stupid sock ideas. Seriously. You’ll burn your heels.
PS. U.R. Bot enough, Mr. Bjoose. U.R.