Last night, while musing on this and that and applying some stinky homeopathic goo to my radiation-inflamed boobal-amputation scar, I glanced up to observe that the television was on, and that it was polluting my living room with a TGI Friday’s commercial.
Despite the name, there is no jovial innkeeper named Friday. TGI Friday’s is in fact a corporate entity owned by a many-tentacled conglomerate called Carlson, which also owns a bunch of tacky travel agencies and crappy hotels, including the Radisson, home away from home to guys who carry cheap black leather briefcases. Carlson’s 923 Friday’s “casual dining” hellholes are notable, as are all apostrophized corporate slop troughs, only for their ability to remain ubiquitous despite their sickeningly inedible products (which may or may not contain soylent green) and their persistent and transparent efforts to degrade the entire human species.
Unsurprisingly, the aforementioned commercial was asinine beyond belief: four dudely young morons boo-yah over some disgusting meat entree (served, no doubt, on a bed of Velveeta, Jack Daniels, and bacon fat). Meat, meat, meat, and then one femmy guy tries to boo-yah a sprig of broccoli, whereupon the other three basically call him a faggot until he waggles a sausage in the air, reaffirming the meatly phallocentricity of the group. Meat = dick, vegetables = pussy, nonconformity and gender ambiguity weaken male cohesion, etc. I was overcome with inarticulate rage over this fucktarded display, so naturally I was relieved this morning to see that both Shakespeare’s Sister (“Be a man! Eat shit!) and Amanda have given this thing a proper skewering.
Friday’s pioneered the bourgeois Tiffany-lamp meat market bar concept in the 70’s. Coincidence? I think not.