Eat My Ass
I want to start a zine — no! a bowling league newsletter - no! an advertising flyer called Eat My Ass. I will distribute said flyer to only the best gas stations, laundromats and fish and chip joints; in a trinity of blessed convenience, all the better. One page of A4, folded in the middle. ‘Eat My Ass’ plastered across the top in garish bold like a derisive bad toupee hovering over a hollow, eyeless screed-of-contempt face set off by thick, lucrative paid-advertising lambchops. Handsome, as in ‘please hand me some of that advertising flyer, ma’am!’ The ads will look great. Take my word for it. The contemptuous screed? Provocative, but not lewd. Aggressive, but playful. In short, too good to actually hold the readers`attention. Unable to process the screed, their underdeveloped intellectual palate will go searching for something soft and sweet, cognitive comfort food, their gaze shifting instinctively to the ad space.
Success!
EAT MY ASS.
