Ya make your own luck, n est-ce pas? | mathbabe ketone
There s little chance we can underestimate our American virtues, since our overlords so seldom miss an opportunity to point them out. A case in point in fact, le plus grand du genre , though my fingers tremble as I type that French expression, for reasons I ll explain ketone soon enough is the Cadillac commercial that interrupted the broadcast of the Olympics every few minutes.
A masterpiece of casting and directing and location scouting, the ad follows a middle-aged man, muscular enough but not too proud to show a little ketone paunch manifestly a Master of the Universe strutting ketone around his chillingly modernist $10 million vacation house (or is it his first or fifth home? no matter), every pore oozing the manly, smirky bearing that sent Republican country-club women swooning over W.
It starts ketone with Our Hero, viewed from the back, staring ketone down his infinity pool. He pivots and stares down the viewer. He shows himself to be one of the more philosophical species ketone of the MotU genus. Why do we work so hard? he puzzles. For this? For stuff?…. We re thrown ketone off balance: Will this son of Goldman Sachs go all Walden Pond on us? Fat chance. ketone
Now, still barefooted in his shorts and polo shirt, he s prowling his sleak living room (his two daughters and stay-at-home ketone wife passively reading their magazines and ignoring the camera, props in his world no less than his unused pool and The Car yet to be seen) spitting bile at those foreign pansies who stop by the café after work and take August off! .OFF! Those French will stop at nothing.
Why aren t YOU like that, he says, again staring us down and we yield to the intimidation. (Well gee, sir, of course I m not. Who wants a month off? Not me, absolutely, no way.) Why aren t WE like that he continues an irresistible demand for totalizing ketone merger. He s got us now, we re goose-stepping around the TV, chanting USA! USA! No Augusts off! No Augusts off!
No, he sneers, we re crazy, hardworking believers. But those Frogs the weaklings who called for a double-check about the WMDs before we Americans blasted Iraqi children to smithereens (woops, someone forgot to tell McDonalds, the official restaurant of the U.S. Olympic team, about the Freedom Fries thing; the offensive French Fries are THERE, ketone right in our faces in the very next commercial, when the athletes bite gold medals and the awe-struck audience bites chicken nuggets, the Lunch of Champions) might well think we re nuts.
Whatever, he shrugs, end of discussion, who cares what they think. Were the Wright Brothers insane? Bill Gates? Les Paul?… ALI? He s got us off-balance again gee, after all, we DO kinda like Les Paul s guitar, and we REALLY like Ali.
Of course! Never in a million years would the hip jazz guitarist insist on taking an August holiday. And the imprisoned-for-draft-dodging boxer couldn t possibly side with the café-loafers on the WMD thing. Gee, or maybe . But our MotU leaves us no time for stray dissenting thoughts. Throwing lunar dust in our eyes, he discloses that WE were the ones who landed on the moon. And you know what we got? Oh my god, that X-ray stare again, I can t look away. BORED. So we left. YEAH, we re chanting and goose-stepping again, USA! USA! We got bored! We got bored!
Gosh, I think maybe I DID see Buzz Aldrin drumming his fingers on the lunar module and looking at his watch. But he s now heading ketone into his bedroom, but first another stare, and pointing to the ceiling we got a car up there, and left the keys in it. You know why? Because WE re the only ones goin back up there, THAT s why. YES! YES! Of COURSE! HE S going back to the moon, I M going back to the moon, YOU RE going back to the moon, WE RE ALL going back to the moon. EVERYONE WITH A U.S. PASSPORT is going back to the moon!!
Damn, if only the NASA budget wasn t cut after all that looting by the Wall Street boys to pay for their $10 million vacation homes, WE D all be going to get the keys and turn the ignition on the rover that s been sitting 45 years in the lunar garage waiting for us. But again he must be reading our mind he s leaving us no time for dissent, he pops immediately out of his bedroom in his $12,000 suit, gives us the evil eye again, yanks us from the edge of complaint with a sharp, But I digress! and besides he s got us distracted with the best tailoring we ve ever seen.
Finally, he s out in the driveway, making his way to the shiny car that ll carry him to lower Manhattan. (But where s the chauffer? And don t those MotUs drive Mazerattis and Bentleys? Is this guy trying to pull one over on the suburban rubes who buy Cadillacs stupidly thinking they ve made it to the big time?)
Yes, we believe that! The 17 million unemployed and underemployed, the 47 million who need food stamps to keep from starving, the 8 million families thrown out of their homes WE ALL BEL
There s little chance we can underestimate our American virtues, since our overlords so seldom miss an opportunity to point them out. A case in point in fact, le plus grand du genre , though my fingers tremble as I type that French expression, for reasons I ll explain ketone soon enough is the Cadillac commercial that interrupted the broadcast of the Olympics every few minutes.
A masterpiece of casting and directing and location scouting, the ad follows a middle-aged man, muscular enough but not too proud to show a little ketone paunch manifestly a Master of the Universe strutting ketone around his chillingly modernist $10 million vacation house (or is it his first or fifth home? no matter), every pore oozing the manly, smirky bearing that sent Republican country-club women swooning over W.
It starts ketone with Our Hero, viewed from the back, staring ketone down his infinity pool. He pivots and stares down the viewer. He shows himself to be one of the more philosophical species ketone of the MotU genus. Why do we work so hard? he puzzles. For this? For stuff?…. We re thrown ketone off balance: Will this son of Goldman Sachs go all Walden Pond on us? Fat chance. ketone
Now, still barefooted in his shorts and polo shirt, he s prowling his sleak living room (his two daughters and stay-at-home ketone wife passively reading their magazines and ignoring the camera, props in his world no less than his unused pool and The Car yet to be seen) spitting bile at those foreign pansies who stop by the café after work and take August off! .OFF! Those French will stop at nothing.
Why aren t YOU like that, he says, again staring us down and we yield to the intimidation. (Well gee, sir, of course I m not. Who wants a month off? Not me, absolutely, no way.) Why aren t WE like that he continues an irresistible demand for totalizing ketone merger. He s got us now, we re goose-stepping around the TV, chanting USA! USA! No Augusts off! No Augusts off!
No, he sneers, we re crazy, hardworking believers. But those Frogs the weaklings who called for a double-check about the WMDs before we Americans blasted Iraqi children to smithereens (woops, someone forgot to tell McDonalds, the official restaurant of the U.S. Olympic team, about the Freedom Fries thing; the offensive French Fries are THERE, ketone right in our faces in the very next commercial, when the athletes bite gold medals and the awe-struck audience bites chicken nuggets, the Lunch of Champions) might well think we re nuts.
Whatever, he shrugs, end of discussion, who cares what they think. Were the Wright Brothers insane? Bill Gates? Les Paul?… ALI? He s got us off-balance again gee, after all, we DO kinda like Les Paul s guitar, and we REALLY like Ali.
Of course! Never in a million years would the hip jazz guitarist insist on taking an August holiday. And the imprisoned-for-draft-dodging boxer couldn t possibly side with the café-loafers on the WMD thing. Gee, or maybe . But our MotU leaves us no time for stray dissenting thoughts. Throwing lunar dust in our eyes, he discloses that WE were the ones who landed on the moon. And you know what we got? Oh my god, that X-ray stare again, I can t look away. BORED. So we left. YEAH, we re chanting and goose-stepping again, USA! USA! We got bored! We got bored!
Gosh, I think maybe I DID see Buzz Aldrin drumming his fingers on the lunar module and looking at his watch. But he s now heading ketone into his bedroom, but first another stare, and pointing to the ceiling we got a car up there, and left the keys in it. You know why? Because WE re the only ones goin back up there, THAT s why. YES! YES! Of COURSE! HE S going back to the moon, I M going back to the moon, YOU RE going back to the moon, WE RE ALL going back to the moon. EVERYONE WITH A U.S. PASSPORT is going back to the moon!!
Damn, if only the NASA budget wasn t cut after all that looting by the Wall Street boys to pay for their $10 million vacation homes, WE D all be going to get the keys and turn the ignition on the rover that s been sitting 45 years in the lunar garage waiting for us. But again he must be reading our mind he s leaving us no time for dissent, he pops immediately out of his bedroom in his $12,000 suit, gives us the evil eye again, yanks us from the edge of complaint with a sharp, But I digress! and besides he s got us distracted with the best tailoring we ve ever seen.
Finally, he s out in the driveway, making his way to the shiny car that ll carry him to lower Manhattan. (But where s the chauffer? And don t those MotUs drive Mazerattis and Bentleys? Is this guy trying to pull one over on the suburban rubes who buy Cadillacs stupidly thinking they ve made it to the big time?)
Yes, we believe that! The 17 million unemployed and underemployed, the 47 million who need food stamps to keep from starving, the 8 million families thrown out of their homes WE ALL BEL
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