From “Teletubbies: The link between fat ad budgets and fat children,” Reason:
When my daughter was 6, she spent a morning watching cartoons, during which she saw one commercial after another for cereal, candy, and cookies. Inspired by these messages, she grabbed her purse, drove to the grocery store, and loaded up the car with Cap’n Crunch, Skittles, and Oreos. That was all she ate for a month.
The astute reader will notice a few hints that I made this story up: Six-year-olds do not drive, and they usually do not have access to large sums of cash. Even if they did, their parents probably would notice if they embarked upon a month-long junk food binge.
At a recent Cato Institute forum, Dale Kunkel, a University of California at Santa Barbara communications professor who wants the government to fight obesity by restricting or banning food ads aimed at children, confessed that “you could easily say, ‘This is all the parents. The child does not drive to the supermarket.'” But then the conversation would be very short, and all the people who came to Cato expecting an hour-long debate would go away disappointed.
Heh.
Oh. And it’s a Platonic love Jacob and I share. And a pretty one-sided one at that. Just to be clear.
I think removing the words “under God” from the pledge would probably reverse this juvenile obesity problem within months. Maybe even within weeks.
And while you’re contemplating the kid on the couch, don’t forget the dog in the corner. “Our dogs are getting overweight for exactly the same reasons we are,” Zywicki noted. “They’re eating too much and exercising too little. They’re not watching too much advertising.”
This reminds me of that Buckley quote – something about how a country that argues about whether it’s a good idea to privatize lighthouses isn’t even going to think about socializing medicine.
In this case, a country that worries about how fat its dogs are… um… is probably really fat.
Hmm. Didn’t work out like I thought it would.
Yet more proof that Jeff is insecure about his “manliness.” The compensating beard. The trite macho dialogue. The quick caveat about his male-on-male love.
Hey, Jeff – regale us with your High School football heroics and the high-quality pussy you got. Then we’ll really believe.
Well, I was a helluva quarterback—which worked well for me, tucking my hands under center and all. But hey, that’s part of the game, no shame in it.
Plus, I recently shaved the beard. And got myself a top-dollar Brazilian wax. I’m ready to embrace my smooth, closely-cropped me-ness.
Are we going to have to read a full Anal Disclaimer from now on every time one guy praises another guy’s writing? God damn you, Wonkette.