Up Next: Tara Reid Vodka

So, I’m thumbing through GQ today and I come across an ad for a new Mastercard. Not just any Mastercard – an USHER mastercard. Uhhh…what? I mean, what hell-spawn of shittergy is this? Couldn’t his agent get him an energy drink or something? Look, I even like some of Usher’s stuff: “Yeah” was catchy as hell and even had me contemplating going to a “club” or whatever they’re called just so I could listen to it among people who would dance to it. When the glue wore off I realized I wouldn’t do it but, you know, the thought was there. But really – a credit card? It’s not even clever juxtaposition, the way, say, a Hello Kitty vibrator is (always combining a child’s innocence and sex, those Japanese…or is that Michael Jackson? I forget). The idea is as straightforward as Paris Hilton’s face on a home STD kit – someone who glamourizes a money-soaked lifestyle promoting money on loan (and of course, the lifestyle is implied – credit card companies are not dumb, after all. If they were they would have let me pay my bill with those two “Rolexes” I bought off the dude on the corner of 33rd Street). Do I really need someone who rocks fur coats and chains roughly the size and girth tugboats use to haul in a wayward supertanker staring at me everytime I make a purchase? “Hmmm…you know what? That Armani three-piece sounds good. And throw in the trilby. All my afternoon-shift colleagues at Red Lobster will be totally jealous when they catch sight of THIS.” No, no good. On my credit card I want a picture of a welfare mother and her three kids (distended stomachs preferred) to make me re-think splurging on that second roll of toilet paper. After all, I have yesterday’s newspaper.

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