Category Archives: Pointless Nostalgia

Pointless Nostalgia Video

Pointless Nostalgia Video: McRib

A recent tweet by Michael J. Nelson (of MST3K/Rifftrax fame) used a phrase that had, for me, nigh-Proustian implications. Its mere utterance was enough to bring flooding back a lifetime of memories, vivid and haunting. It was a syllable that had as much cosmic resonance as om or na mya ho ren gen kyo–perhaps more

The word: CHAWMP.

You may not have heard this word before (if it can even be called a word). That’s because it only existed for one very brief period, spoken by one lone visionary, and then disappeared into the ether from whence it came. And it only was heard in one, very special place: McRib commercials.

The McRib was basically a fake-pork sandwich (the kind you can now get in packs of ten at Sam’s Clubs everywhere) on a sesame seed hoagie roll with pickles and onions. (Amazingly, not fake Big Mac onion chiplets, but actual onion slices.) According to Wikipedia, the McRib was first introduced in 1981 in select locations. McDonald’s tried to make it a nationwide menu item in 1989, but soon abandoned this experiment.

Since then, it’s been reintroduced and rescinded in brief, tantalizing spurts, taunting lovers of meat byproducts and sugary barbecue sauce. I’m not here to extol the virtues of this sandwich, which was pretty awful. (I liked it as a kid, but I also liked fluffernutter as a kid, so there you go.) I’ve come to celebrate the memory of the ads, and its magical monotone mantra.

The premise of the ad: Mustachioed Dad buys some McRibs for a nice healthy family dinner. On the drive home, he feels tempted as their tantalizing smell wafts throughout his car and invades his every pore. What’s that, McRib? You want me to eat you? I really shouldn’t, but…oh what the hell, I’m not made of stone!

All actors must make choices. At each stage of a script, he must choose which path he will travel for whatever role he inhabits, be it Hamlet, Willy Loman, or the narrator harassing the McRib Dad. Those choices, as much as the words on the page themselves, create the work of art known as Theatre. ACTING!

I’m one hundred percent sure that the copywriters did not pen a script in which they asked a narrator to say CHAWMP, because why would anybody do that? No, this was a decision made by the narrator. “Mind if I do some improv?” he must have asked, and the guys in the studio, feeling adventurous, must have said, “Yeah man, just riff!” The result: GOLD.

Kudos to McDonalds (a normally conservative outfit when it comes to ads) for retaining this bit of weirdness in the commercial. That’s why CHAWMP remains tattooed upon my brain, much like the pizza guy from the Polly-o String Cheese commercial who says NUTHIN’? As does the narrator’s decision to say MACK-donalds and MACK-rib, which I found almost as bizarre/hilarious.

Even better, this 15 second ad-let in which the narrator says CHAWMP not once, but twice!

The man responsible for CHAWMP is Tony Joe White, best known for his 1969 hit “Polk Salad Annie” and not much else. But apparently he’s opened up for Creedence, Sly Stone, and Steppenwolf, and also appeared in 1973’s Catch My Soul, a rock-opera version of Othello directed by Patrick McGoohan (nothing about that sounds like it could be terrible!). So the man’s had quite an interesting career. However, CHAWMP is clearly the pinnacle of his art.

According to his web site, Tony Joe White is also known as The Swamp Fox, which could also be the name of an outboard motor, or a sexual act so depraved I cannot describe it here. Just thought you guys would like to know that.

I should add that I don’t know for 100 percent certain that Tony Joe White is responsible for CHAWMP. It’s not in any bio of his that I could locate online, and a Google search had no authoritative answers. But just listen to “Polk Salad Annie” and tell me that’s not the same voice. The first time I heard that song on the radio, I nearly drove off the road. “HOLY SHIT! IT’S THE MCRIB GUY! HE SAID ‘CHAWMP’!”

The only other possible explanation is that somewhere out there exists a masterful Tony Joe White impersonator. And that McDonalds sought this man out–20 solid years after Tony Joe White’s sole hit song was released. I find this possibility not only implausible, but also crushingly depressing to even contemplate.

For extra evidence, peep this video where Mr. White duets with Johnny Cash. Him and The Man in Black share a few sly drug references and also appear be, if not high, then enjoying themselves far more than they should be. Johnny also throws in quite a few CHAWMPS himself.

McDonalds knew the power of CHAWMP, at least at first. When the McRib was reintroduced in 1991, the ads used CHAWMP at the very end. Although without the golden pipes of Tony Joe White, the effect was muted, as you can see/hear in this example.

However, subsequent ads eschewed CHAWMP for other dumb schemes that don’t even warrant mentioning in this space. And perhaps it’s just as well. Why try to recreate such a masterpiece? Do you try to redo the Mona Lisa, or a shooting star?

Perhaps it is good enough that for one brief, shining moment, there was a CHAWMP.

Pointless Nostalgia Video

Pointless Nostalgia Video: Malt Likka

Leapfrogging on last week’s journey into the depths of wine product, The Wife pointed me to an ad she remembered from her youth. In it, Urban Folk are urged to combine their own brand of wine product with grapefruit juice. Take a peek.

Yes, Thunderbird–renowned as the booze of choice for hobos, derelicts, and hopeless alcoholics–mixes well with grapefruit juice. Just pour it straight down the neck of the bottle. You know, just like all normal, non-transient people do. And make sure you shake it up nice and long. That’s not gonna spray everywhere the second you take your thumb out of the opening.

This ad hails from the difficult childhood of Ethnic Ads. Some time in the 70s, companies finally figured out that black people bought stuff and thus merited their own targeted advertising. But since they also didn’t figure black people merited actual jobs at these agencies, you got spots like the weird, quasi-racist one you see above.

Despite being the official sponsor of the DTs, Thunderbird was once considered classy enough to have James Mason for a spokesman. Yes, the star of 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea, Lolita, and Heaven Can Wait, shilling for the booze whose very name screams Hey buddy, got some change? Although if you look at his filmography, it’s not too much of a stretch. Apparently Mr. Mason once guested on several episodes of something called Schlitz Playhouse. Of particular note, their performance of Paint Your Wagon (With Vomit).

All this talk of premium malt beverages reminded me of one of the worst ads I’ve ever seen. This ran in the early-to-mid 90s. It opened on a city street, obviously meant to look “ghetto”. And if that wasn’t a big enough cue, the viewer was also treated to a thugged-out guy sitting in a recliner, in the middle of said street. Next to his chair, a bucket of ice.

THUG: Some people, they take the bull by the horns…

[Cut to footage of rodeo rider. Cut back.]

THUG: But round my way, there’s only one way to grab the bull…

[Reaches into ice bucket, pulls out bottle of Bull Malt Liquor.]

THUG:…by the neck…

[Thug yanks recliner lever so the leg rest pops up. After very long pause:]

THUG: CHILLLLLLLLLLLL….

I couldn’t believe this thing ever aired. It was so racist and almost fear-mongering, I figured it was either written by the KKK or Lee Atwater.

I scoured the Internets for this all last night, to no avail. (I’m pretty sure I have it on a VHS tape somewhere, as I’m almost positive it ran during a late night showing of Mystery Science Theater 3000, but I have neither the time nor the stamina to search for it at this time.) Then I tweeted and facebooked about it, hoping folks might no what I was talking about.

No dice, but tweeter DonCheech did point me to this ad, which was in the same category of racisosity. All this ad for Schlitz Malt Liquor needs is someone shuffling off at the end, croaking “Feets don’t fail me now!”

Of course, the gold standard of malt liquor commercials were the smooth moves laid on by one Mr. Billy Dee Williams when he shilled for Colt 45 in the 80s. I shan’t post any of those ads, but I will show you this clip from the AMAZING Looney Tunes 50th Anniversary Special that ran in 1985. In it, various celebrities spoke of Bugs, Daffy, et al as if they were real actors they’d worked with (Bill Murray’s segments were especially transcendent).

In this clip, Billy Dee is clearly playing off of his Colt 45 ad persona. His little hand gestures and quiet smiles at the cacophonous music of Carl Stalling is a triumph of understatement.

Pointless Nostalgia Video

Pointless Nostalgia Video Presents: Harvey’s Bristol Cream

I believe that hate, like love, is within all of us, and that we have a need to hate as much as we have a need to love. It can be a cleansing, cathartic emotion, as long as it is expressed in a healthy, non-violent fashion.

Assuming this is true, why do we hate certain things? Is it nature or nurture? Would you hate the same things you hate if you were born in Morocco, or Bavaria, or Upper Mongolia?

I can’t answer that for certain. My gut feeling is that there are certain things I would not hate if I came from a different background, simply because I wouldn’t care about them. My vitriol for Chipper Jones and Roger Clemens would probably be diminished if I was born in Sri Lanka and had no interest in baseball.

But there are other things I am certain I would hate no matter what, because they are so eminently hateable, they transcend culture, race, and creed. I shall discuss one of them today.

First, some background: The 1980s gave us many, many bad things, one of which was the proliferation of Wine Product. Not wine, but not not-wine, either. This led in turn to the Wine Product commercial, which came in varying shades of horrible.

For instance, the Bruce Willis Seagram’s ads, made at the height of his popularity and ubiquity. I hesitate to even call them bad because, as is the case with pretty much everything he’s ever done, Bruce seems so self-conscious of his own smug brand of douchery. His every smirk silently communicates, I know this is all bullshit. I almost have to admire him.

These ads, however, are not the focus of this post (and probably deserve their own analysis, which we may get to at a future date). The commercial I have in mind belongs to a different category of Wine Product, the kind that actually tried to masquerade as wine.

Back in the 80s, you still couldn’t advertise straight-up, non-beer booze on TV. But you could run ads for this type of alcoholic beverage. The kind of cheap, wine-esque swill you still see in supermarkets and bodegas.

The affordability of these products was never emphasized in any way. In fact, the bottlers went to great lengths to insist that their stuff was enjoyed by jet setting glitterati. Remember, this was the same era as Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous, when people actually watched a show that did nothing but remind them how many wonderful things they could never have. (Jesus, the 80s were gross.)

A prime example: This ad for Riunite, in which rich young things ski down the slopes grabbing bottles of Riunite as they slalom, on their way to a mountaintop barbecue.

Even as a kid, ads like this angered me. There was something so venal about trying to sell something so cheap (in several senses of the word) as a ticket to affluence to the poor slobs who could afford no better. And in retrospect, it seems even more gross, as the 80s were the decade when the American working class took its last gasp before a slow extinction.

But this Riunite commercial isn’t the object of my hatred. There was one ad that stood out, one that filled me with an absolute, undying, white hot hatred I still have to this day. 

Truth be told, I couldn’t even remember what product this was for, until I tweeted about it yesterday and received a link from WFMU’s own Evan “Funk” Davies (who can be heard tonight and every Wednesday at 9pm). Turns out, it was a commercial for Harvey’s Bristol Cream, and it is every bit as infuriating as I remember.

There are many, many things to hate about this ad. The jingle is terrible. The weird, contrapuntal spoken word duet part in the middle of said jingle (“upper crrrrusty!”) is nauseating. And the guests at the party look like a second grader’s idea of Rich Fancy People. But what really pushes my feelings into the realm of Super Hate is the last line, and the Patrick Bateman-esque bastard who says it, in his fake Pierce Brosnan accent.

The last line of this ad has rung in my head for the last 20+ years. Just hearing it is like a boxing bell, making me jump up with my fists clenched, ready to start swinging. If I ever found the man who uttered it–or better yet, the ad wizard who wrote it–I would pummel this man with all my might, and I would not stop until someone pulled me off him.

Here it is, folks. Brace yourselves.

“Your palace or mine.” Ugh. Go die, Anonymous Smug Guy.