Ah, the drama, the camaraderie, the warm human interaction, the - oh what the hell. It's strange how something that seems so blatantly gay now wasn't really seen as gay then. Or at least, I don't think so. But I've never seen a bunch of straight men in a locker room joshing each other about their underwear. Some of these guys are, I confess, pretty cute and easy on the eyes. Hey, I like men too, like the smell of them, their voices, their. . . excuse me. It is an appreciation that most definitely does NOT wane with the years. But the union suit idea doesn't make it for me. And the "stretchy seat" thing kind of kills whatever attraction might ensue. Not to mention those "slumberalls" that I don't think you'd even see at a co-ed pajama party.
NOTE: My blog program is vastly improved now, so that I can blow this up immensely and you might even be able to read most of the text (which is really the best part). Which is why this gif is running sooooooooo slowly! The original ads were long and skinny (like some of these guys) and fit down the sides of the text in magazines, which makes for an awkward size - and having to scroll down to get all the text, if you're that dedicated. If not, here is a sort of edited version with only the best parts:
In my never-ending quest to find the perfect men's underwear ad, I found this one instead. "Givvies" must have been the main rival of Munchhausen or whatever those other ones were, the ones with the stretchy seat.
Uh, this is sort of strange. But I do love a man in uniform.
I don't know why all the circles on this guy, what they represent. Maybe the areas that most desperately need covering up.
Here's a guy home from the war, and his wife is being praised for knowing "the difference". Good for her! She must've kept her eyes open.
Givvies won't give you "the creeps", apparently, but creeps might follow you home.
And what's in that book? My guess is it's his first marriage manual. He's trying to believe what people are doing in the diagrams.
Just don't get behind this guy.
I could shoot myself. But I don't know why.
POST-BLOG REGRETS: Now that I've had some time to reflect on all this, I definitely want to find some "anti-squirm shorts". With a seamless seat.
At some point in the marketing madness that pushed cigarettes down everyone's throat, a medical note began to sneak in. Nobody is quite sure why.
Mad Men dealt with this creeping uneasiness, and the frantic efforts of the tobacco companies to stifle it and play down any possible health effects. Oh, sure, cigarettes might cause a scratchy throat, a little bit of coughing, something like that. But here's this medical-looking man, this guy with a round silver disc strapped to his forehead (and what is he, a miner or something?) telling us to "smoke a FRESH cigarette." Camels! Something fresh about Camels, no doubt about it, though no one could quite say what it was.
One ad I found, which I can't conjure up here, said, "I want a treat, not a treatment." This is an obvious denial of some sort of sneaking suspicion that cigarettes might be, uh, er, um, bad for you. The ironic thing is that if you have enough of those "treats", treatment is almost inevitable - unless you just drop dead without it.
Hmmmm! Not one single case of throat irritation due to smoking Camels! Why such strident insistence, I wonder? Who brought the subject up, anyway? Humphrey Bogart?
I only wish I could read the testimonials of those tiny figures, each gleefully holding a lit Camel. I'm sure they'd be eye-opening to read.
NOW. . . Scientific Evidence on Effects of Smoking! A doctor does this razz-ma-tazz test on a whole bunch of smokers, and concludes there were "NO adverse effects on the nose, throat and sinuses of the group from smoking Chesterfields." They don't mention the lungs.
In our house, a chesterfield was something you lay down on to take a nap or watch Another World. And that guy, you know who he is, don't you? Christ in a rowboat - it's Arthur Fucking Godfrey, whom I hoped I would never have to look at again!
But this excerpt from a report on advertising, provenance unknown, kind of says it all. At least it's a lot more logical than what we've just looked at.
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I steal stuff, but according to the Facebook philosphy, it's called "sharing". Nobody knows the provenance of anything any more. If I go on Tin Eye, I just get a whole bunch of blogs/web sites where the image appears, in different sizes. So I won't feel guilty, I won't, that I stole these (mostly, not all) from Kitsch Bitsch, which is always good for a laugh.
It is here that I first discovered that jaw-dropping artifact, the Munsingwear Men's underwear ad.I keep finding more and more of these, with men in locker rooms extolling the virtues of Stretchy Seat briefs to each other and rating them according to how much or little they support your balls.
But we'll save that 'til last. I like this horse one, don't you? We don't want to mention poo-poo anywhere. It's not about poo-poo anyway. In fact, we don't know what it's about. Not so long ago, ads talked about "irregularity".
This isn't really an ad, but a public service. It's the equivalent of that doomsday alarm they hear in the cockpit when the plane is going down: WHOOP WHOOP PULL! UP! WHOOP WHOOP PULL! UP! Generally speaking, it's the last thing you ever hear. The government was assuring people then that a nuclear strike was no worse than a bad cold, so long as you had a well-stocked fallout shelter.
But is one minute really long enough to stay down?
Now this is a favorite, a story about a girl who is both too old AND too smelly to ever get married. What is she doing that she should smell so bad? Doesn't she ever shower? In my experiences, people who smell bad don't bathe, or at least don't wash their clothes often enough. This sort of pitch segues into the married woman's need to douche with Lysol to get rid of those "married" odors that can drive a husband away.
OK, enough smelly twats, armpits, feet, etc. Yeccccchhhh.
". . . in the dressing room I hotly accused her. In an instant we were in a disgraceful hair-pulling match. But Sylvia got in the last bitter word: 'Any girl with a breath like yours ought to lose her customers!"
Customers? This reminds me of those Women in Chains movies from the 1950s, with big butch matrons jingling keys and eyeing the young inmates as they wash their frilly black bras and hang them on the bars. I don't know what possessed Listerine or whoever-it-was to use images of two women pulling each other's hair out. "Hotly" accused her? That's hot!
The silly man sat on the wall
Playing with his willy.
With such a long shake, his trouser snake
Was getting very chilly.
Blow you buggers, blow, he said
And keep the thing from freezing!
Blow yourself, the actress said,
Teasing, teasing, teasing.
I promised you Munsingwear, and I'm giving you Munsingwear. Sorry I'm blowing these things up so much, but I don't feel like transcribing the text. But in this case, the longing look from the guy in the tie says it all. Note where his gaze rests.
Do men stand around in their underwear talking to other men about gonch (ginch, ganch, gotch, gotchees, whatever) after playing golf? The Munsingwear Men do.
And I am too lazy to transcribe all this, but maybe you can make it out, or just guess what it says.
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