Tuesday, December 28, 1999

Hell in a handcart

This just in: the world is going to hell in a handcart.

The world is going to hell in a handcart.

The world is going to hell in a handcart.

The world is going to hell in a handcart. Sorry if I'm repeating myself, but I always liked the sound of that. "Hell in a handcart." Like something Ozzie Osbourne would say. "Hey lads. We're going to hell in a handcart!" Sounds kinda fun when he says it. "Hell in a handcart! Hey!" Like a ride in a heavy metal amusement park. Ozzie's handcart to hell...Mr. Choad's Wild Ride!

I mean it's almost Y2K and all. I was expecting, y'know, more of a big production. People in white robes on the mountaintops, guys with long beards with signs saying WE'RE GOING TO HELL IN A HANDCART.

Instead ... there's that new diamond commercial. Yes, more shameless emotional manipulation from the same folks who brought you the "WANT SEX, GIVE DIAMONDS" shadowplay ad campaign.

The new spot from the Diamond Dogs? They show this guy giving diamonds to a woman who is presumably his wife in Times Square while everybody else disappears. Yes. How sweet. What they don't show is the power going off ten seconds later and the mob killing them for their diamonds.

These ever-loving commericals are, of course, brought to you by the ever-loving diamond cartels...South African, mostly. I truly hate those manipulative chuds. Reminds me of the bad guys in "Lethal Weapon 2."

I can just see the meeting back at Cartel headquarters. Cavernous, darkened, smoke-filled room with ceiling fans, natch. Some big, fat, cigar-chomping, important white guy resembling Sydney Greenstreet at the head of huge table talking to other fat, important white guys.

SYDNEY GREENSTREET: Good evening, gentlemen. Well, apparently, the kaffirs can vote now. Hmm-hmm. Well, you can't have everything. Old business. Mr. Secretary?

PETER LORRE: We shall continue to suppress the creation of gem-quality diamonds using industrial diamond technology. Certain inconvenient scientists will have accidents.

SYDNEY GREENSTREET: Well, they're accident prone. New business?

PETER LORRE: I'm afraid we must move the mass graves from the diamond mine tailing pits. The new government might consider it ... distasteful.

SYDNEY GREENSTREET: Night work to be sure. Most expensive. Well, gentlemen, we need to adjust our cash flow. What say we make it two months salary for an engagement ring? Two months salary, a neat little formula, everyone can remember that, even kaffirs.

The table of evil bastards laughs.

SYDNEY GREENSTREET: But who could argue with it? And, obviously, the love of your life is worth two months salary, hmmm-hmmm.

PETER LORRE: Yes. Yes. Obviously. "Honey. Spend two months salary or I'll know you don't love me. Buy me a lump of crystallized carbon so I'll know it's true love!"

SYDNEY GREENSTREET. Love. Hmmm-hmmm. Yes. The dream that stuff is made of, hmmm-hmmm. Meeting adjourned.

Diamonds. Much, much worse than flowers. A far deeper level of emotional blackmail. Very clever.

The world is truly going to hell in a fucking handcart.

A diamond-encrusted handcart.

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