Bone To Pick: An Open Letter to the Gillette Shaving Company
Dear Jerkholes:
It’s been well over a year that I’ve sat, complacent ‘tis true, watching the drivel that your ace marketing department spews over the airwaves. Image after image of chiselled, betowelled Adonis-like men flash before the viewer, none of whom (if your ad men are to be believed) have the wit to scrape a blade along their granite jaws. Tell me, how is it that the ancient and venerable Gillette Shaving Company has survived well over a century when it believes that it’s clientele has no idea how to shave? I can hear the dicks on your Board now, “But why Gabe? Why aren’t they buying our product?”
First off, douches, if your marketers had done a lick of research they would have discovered that the new millenium has seen the advent of the indie beard. A whole, confused generation of “musicians”, “actors”, stand-up “comedians” and other societal parasites has embraced the gimme, gimme, gimme attitude of the eighties and a slightly less slovenly, fresher smelling grunge-look from the early nineties. Think of a happier, better dressed Kurt Cobain wearing shoes incapable of being used for work of any kind, hair product and an iPhone (before Courtney shot him). This is a generation who wish to project the “Hey world, I’ve been up all night in my basement recording studio and who has time to shave anyway because I’m texting my girlfriend about my bus ride to the coffee shop” image. My advice to you–leave them for dead, Gillette.
Secondly, and more to the point, is that I as well as many millions of my brethren know how to shave and do indeed need more razor blades. It’s just that it still hurts to walk, as our stitches are still healing from the last time we nicked down to the pharmacy and were bent over the counter buying your product. This was after I had been to the bank to remortage the house so that I was sure I could afford them. My therapist has warned me against doing this too many times in a calendar year. I would rather scrape that last nicked, jagged razor down my cheek, feeling every single follicle ripped screaming from my delicate features and be able to feed and clothe my children, and those of my therapist, than shell out for more of your overpackaged, “hypoallergenic” beauty knives. None of you geniuses figured this part out?
So, I suggest back to the drawing board for you, Gillette, and no coming back with “Ooo, we’ve added another blade for a smoother shave” (patent pending) or “we’ve coated the blades with diamond dust and male phermones for a closer shave and guaranteed ladies” (patent pending). And for the love of God, gather up all the numb-nutted jerkholes in your TV commercials and learn them to shave like any red-blooded male in North America. May I suggest packing them off to boot camp? No one can teach a man to shave better than a Drill Sergeant pointing a Browning at his temple while screaming obscenities in his ear, believe you me. So fare thee warned, I will not be in line for the next six-bladed ultra-smooth razor that you jackasses put on the market. “Fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me” as me mammy used to say. You think I’m an idiot? I’ll wait for the seven blades thanks.
My name is Gabe and I got a bone to pick.
*Opinions in this letter are solely the views of Gabe Penske.
