I think that it’s about time that we delve further into the subject of Ancient Advertising. These ads came from the venerable pages of old Paradise magazines given to me by my partner in dubious humour, Maureen Hill.
Let’s start with an image that is so sublimely ridiculous that it deserves . . . uh . . . I’m not sure what it deserves. A punch in the face comes to mind. No that’s inappropriate. Let me think about it:
Okay, who is the clown with the briefcase, where has he been, where is he going, and why, oh why did he insist on that astonishingly dangerous spot from which to depart. I was a helicopter pilot before I took up clowning for a living. Let me tell you, that LZ makes the hair on my arms stand out like Buckwheat’s afro (sorry if you don’t get that, Google Buckwheat and Little Rascals).
Now here is a very nice snap of some lovely ladies doing . . . something, I’m not sure what, maybe exchanging gifts, who knows? It’s one of those “concept” things that I’m never sure why it is supposed to make me want to buy a particular car. It seems like a lot of mumbo-jumbo to me, but then I’m not very sophisticated:
When I see one of these old automobile ads I can’t help wondering how long the thing held up here in PNG. I still see some that look a lot like this one on the streets, belching white smoke and wobbling back and forth on bent rims and dead shocks. Most of them are held together only by the tenacity of rust.
Look at this zippy looking aeroplane. It just makes me want to go somewhere. It’s too bad that we ended up with a state-controlled airline that is so backward an inefficient that it’s cheaper to get from Brisbane to NYC than it is to get from Madang to Brisbane:
Maybe we can locate one of these old clunkers and revive it. I bet that a concerned citizens group could buy one for a song, hire me to fly it (for suitable compensation, of course) and beat the socks off of Air Niugini. We’ll have to figure out how to get it to run on palm oil. We can grow our own jet fuel out in our gardens.
Now, here is a lady who loves her perfume. She seems, in fact, to worship it. And don’t hand her any of that “size doesn’t matter” blather. She’s into serious scent:
I tried to load the web site for the designer, but my lunch hour wasn’t long enough. Eunie has about twenty teeny-weeney bottles of perfume in her secret hiding place right next to the bathroom sink. She always smells nice; everybody says so. Why would you need a gallon of the stuff? A pernicious B.O. problem?
The Toyota ad wasn’t silly, it was just mystifying. This one hits about 9.8 on the Silliometer. First of all, comparing a Datsun to a thoroughbred is like Comparing Queen Latifah to Meryl Streep (or something like that). They are both actors, but they don’t run in the same class. (By the way, I like Queen Latifah. Meryl Streep’s not bad either.):
Can you picture a guy way back in the day buying one of these little wonders in Lae and driving it up to Hagen only to discover that it’s completely clapped out by the time gets there?
This one is amusing. I’ll send a crisp K20 note to anyone who can email to me a scan of a document that demonstrates that anyone ever booked a trip through Burns Philp:
Hey, dude, watch where you’re pointing that thing. I might go off. If anybody can think of a good caption for this one, please leave a comment. I’m wracking my brain, but I can’t think of anything suitable for a general audience.
And, how about that funky computer terminal. I’ll give a hundred Kina to anyone who can get me one of those.
It will go into the MadDog Museum of Mildly Amusing Artefacts.