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.