Product licensing is big business. If Disney couldn’t put every single princess they have on paper plates, party hats and topical ointment, how would any little girl have a birthday party ever again and how would Robert Iger afford another layer of solid gold on his lawn? Lord only knows. But sometimes, in the fervor to give the average consumer what they want, you get that one marketing whiz kid who just figures any product can be made fun and two months later you’ve got a whole aisle in Wal-Mart full of Woody Woodpecker herpes medication.
While I understand licensing your trademark for general use to be plastered over any and all products is a good way to make money and makes fans of your trademark happy, I like to think there should be some kind of non-godawful way to go about that. Sanrio, the good money-grubbing whores people who make Hello Kitty don’t agree. They just gots to get paid.
Hence, while you may find Bugs Bunny on a coffee mug or Mickey Mouse on a pair of underoos, you’ll find the blank, dead-eyed, insufferably cute stare of Hello Kitty, obscured behind a shield of mysterious lady things, on these Hello Kitty pads. I’m pretty sure I know what these are for, having seen some health film reels from the 1950s, and it's barely delightful in any sort of cartoony way.
Not to be outdone, of course, there’s still the infamous Hello Kitty vibrator. Sure, it’s just a shoulder massager. Every plastic wang that vibrates is just a shoulder massager.
For best results, apply directly to your crotch shoulder.
Just to clarify though, pads are for when ladies drink too much and it makes their vaginas sweat, right?
Prince is awesome because every time some dude looked at that tiny man in a mauve suit and called him queer, he probably went home and banged an entire metric shit-ton of ass. Plus 1999 just gets more relevant with each passing year.
Back in the day, Prince had his own store in London because where else were people who wanted a little latex version of Prince wrapped around their junk going to buy his brand of condoms? Were they supposed to have sex using some kind of non-horrifying contraceptive or something? Pfft.
Almost as popular his line of “raspberry beret” hemorrhoid pillows.
As it happens, in the 1990s, Prince marketed the hilariously named Purple Raincoats for guys who couldn't wait until after climax to make women regret having sex with them. The condoms came packaged in CD cases and featured Prince’s face right there on the outside, a constant reminder of not only why contraception was important, but that it was possible Prince touched that condom with his own hands and now, by the transitive properties of handjobs, was basically finger banging your girlfriend right now. This is what it sounds like when doves cry indeed.
Admittedly, Sponge Bob lives under the sea and would technically get a lot of sewage dumped on him from passing cruise ships and the Dave Matthews Band, but the idea of actively giving it to his little smiley, yellow face just seems off putting in a German poop porno sort of way. Fun side note: All I know of German culture has been gleaned from WWII movies and disquieting pornography. Everything I know about Canada I learned from The Littlest Hobo and the Beachcombers. Canada sucks.
After having this in the can for a while, we assume your children are going to endure bowel discomfort any time they actually sit down to watch SpongeBob in what amounts to some of the creepiest conditioning you can set up in your own home. Undoubtedly younger children and older relatives who are not fully in control of their faculties may be completely unable to stem the tide right there on the sofa whenever they hear Mr. Krabs.
Long the scourge of good taste, Cafepress lets anything with the motor coordination to mash a keyboard design and sell clothing. Taking things a step further than even we’re likely to do is the store that felt like putting the face of the savior right on your gitch. What woman wouldn’t be ecstatic to feature the son of the Lord who died for her sins right on her flower while his cottony, full-of-forgiveness finger slides up their ass crack? And what guy wouldn’t want to be helping her peel off the layers only to come face to face with the Virgin Mary, traditionally one of the three worst aphrodisiacs in the world, the other two being Amy Winehouse and smashing your balls with a mallet.
Fun Fact: Until the late 1800s, these could only be found under bridges.
If I had to guess I’d say this was all designed by a well-meaning individual who slapped images whole hog across the entire Cafepress playbook, not particularly stopping to consider that thongs come along with the deal. Or they were well aware of it and figured the little Bishop already looks sort of Catholic, so why not deck him out in full regalia.
Novelty toilet paper has been around for a while now but never really caught on with anyone whose home isn’t on wheels or constructed mostly of packing materials gleaned from dumpsters behind a Wal-Mart. Why? Because toilet paper’s at its most productive when it’s sliding down your ass crack and therefore doesn’t need any novelty application. It’s its own novelty.
Nonetheless, some hilarious Larry the Cable Guy fans occasionally produce Osama bin Laden toilet paper and someone made some Barack Obama toilet paper so that you may express political opinions when you’re in private contemplation. Those innovative Japanese even have manga toilet paper, so you have a story to keep you interested as falling asleep on the crapper out of sheer boredom is a big issue over there. The downside, of course, is when another family member wipes away the climax of the story you’re reading, forever making you bitter towards their selfish bastard bowel movements.
But none of that explains what the Smurfs did to deserve the scorn of so many asses nor why consumers would feel the need to teach Papa Smurf who’s really in charge by smearing their evil across his little blue face.
Few children get sick and then wait with giddy impatient delight for mom to jam a thermometer through the backdoor. Those that do grow up to have a lot of cats. For the rest of us, having our internal body heat measured rectally was a very solemn process. Never the less, those wacky kids over in their SpongeBob factory figured the one thing missing from every child’s sick ass was music. The SpongeBob theme should burst forth from every anus as the patient’s temperature is being taken as a constant, surreal and unforgettable reminder that something shaped like a cartoon character is jammed inside them.
Lest you think this is just faulty research skills or a regular thermometer that isn't necessarily for the ass, rest assured that right on the label it explicitly says "for the ass."
For those with a little more dignity, there’s a Winnie the Pooh rectal thermometer. The downside to the Pooh thermometer is that it doesn’t play a fun tune to let you know it’s acclimated itself to your ass, so you’ll just have to use your eyes to figure it out. However, it has Pooh right in the name. Was that joke so obvious everyone just refused to acknowledge it at the time this thing was conceived or what?
Call me crazy, but I thought a big part of the reason Obama got elected was because people didn’t think he was a dildo. Like America just went on a no-dildo jag and decided to try having a dong-free government for a spell just to see what they thought. But I dropped out of poli-sci in my first year so I know about as much about politics as I do about sculpting dildos to look like political figures. The observant amongst you will have noticed a theme in this entry.
The packaging itself leads you to believe this dildo is meant as some kind of tribute to Obama because, hey, some people show their support in kooky ways. But having researched many an article on deviant sexuality--and by research I mean downloaded and saved for late night weeping sessions--I can assure you a dildo is not a tribute. Because somewhere out there is a dude who looks like the bastard child of Bruce Villanch and Jabba the Hutt just waiting to plow his underflaps with Barack’s finely coiffed rubber hairdo.
I already put underwear on this list once but I refuse to not acknowledge what is arguably the worst product in the history of humanity, and I’m including everything on the Arby’s menu when I say that.
Look, it’s autographed. Now jam your groin in there.
You’ll notice on the inside, the most crotch-saturated portion of the garment, is Baron Von SternBrow’s surly mug. He’s just sitting there on what us refined folk call the gusset, faintly lipglossed, waiting for some desperately lonely fan’s undercarriage to settle in for the most disquieting round of CPR ever conceived. Why so glum? Possibly because he's aware that could potentially result in spending the rest of the week until laundry day sporting a most unfortunate goatee depending on the hygiene of the person wearing it. If anyone out there has actually purchased this product, then damn you. Damn your very soul you depraved, completely fucked individual.
If you haven’t fully appreciated the depths of “for fuck’s sake” that this product plumbs, stop to appreciate the Twilight demographic, which seems to mostly be underage girls. That face you just made was your soul puking in its own mouth.