10 Reasons Why Beyoncé, Pink And Britney Spears' Epic Pepsi Commercial Can Never Be Topped
Beyoncé made a new Pepsi commercial, but she already made her best commercial with them back in 2004. posted on April 5, 2013 at 12:59pm EDT
by Brian Galindo BuzzFeed Staff
1. There is the fantastic setting of Ancient Rome.
2. There is a fierce, battle ready Beyoncé…
...that is out for blood!
3. The always badass Pink.
4. Warrior Britney Spears.
5. Enrique Iglesias, as the cruel hearted, Pepsi drinking Emperor.
6. These death stares.
7. The "girl power" moment when they decide not to fight each other and unite against the emperor.
8. Beyoncé, Pink and Britney breakout into Queen's "We Will Rock You" and...
9. ...they get the entire Colosseum to sing along.
10. The perfect Pepsi product moment.
The entire commercial is an impressive three minutes and eight seconds long. If you haven't heard their rendition of "We Will Rock You", then you're really missing out. Do yourself a favor and watch the whole commercial!
Skylark posted:Do yourself a favor and watch the whole commercial!
“My Kindle’s gone, too!” I shouted.
The next morning, Andrea famously blasted Super Bass and leapt out of her room just past 8AM, shouting, “I can still dance, robbers! You can’t take that away from me! Footloose!”
We couldn’t drink legally just yet, but we could rent an apartment and give it a dumb name and fill it with things from our childhood bedrooms that our parents had driven into the city for us. We could pretend we were the first people to ever turn twenty and talk about our freshman year of college as if it was buried so far in the past that it pre-dated the Titanic’s maiden voyage.
“Remember when we thought not getting grilled cheese would be the worst thing to happen to us that day?” Erin snorted. “Pain? We didn’t know pain.”
ilmdge posted:"My favorite part of the Super Bowl is the ads" I said unwittingly,
a classic
@CBoyardee. I LIKE TO WATCH THE SUPER BOWL FOR THE COMMERCIALS. I ALSO LIKE TO STICK MY FACE IN DEEP FRYERS TO SEE WHAT"S ON THE BOTTOM.
8 Reasons To Be Depressed That You'll Never Marry Saif al-Islam Gaddafi
1. He's adorable.
2. He has the voice of a million angels.
3. He's super-hot.
4. He looks like a really great kisser.
5. He's got a great bromance with Blake Shelton.
6. He looks amazing in just a white shirt.
7. He's got the moves like Jagger.
8. He's funny.
ArisVelouchiotis posted:6. He looks amazing in just a white T-shirt.
1. He's glamorous as hell.
2. But also? SERIOUSLY SO CUTE.
3. Just look at his amazing fashion sense.
4. But really, Slavoj always knows just what you're going through.
5. Like, he REALLY knows.
6. And he handles his haters with confidence and grace.
7. And he's not afraid of showing real emotion.
8. So snap for this king.
9. And give him the props that you know he deserves.
10. Because, Žižek, you're truly a god.
Edited by ArisVelouchiotis ()
One of my pet ideas is the Jock/Nerd Theory of History. If you're reading this, you probably got a taste of it during your K-12 education, when your high grades and book smarts somehow failed to put you at the top of the social pyramid. Jocks ruled the school. If the nerds were lucky, they did the jocks' homework in exchange for decent treatment.
According to the Jock/Nerd Theory of History, most historical human societies bore a striking resemblance to K-12 education. In primitive tribes, for instance, the best hunters are on top. If the village brain knows what's good for him, he keeps his mouth shut if the best hunter says something stupid. The rise of civilization gave the nerds a better deal, but as long as almost everyone worked in agriculture, brawn continued to pay well.
But then something amazing happened: Nerds got enough breathing room to develop and implement amazing wealth-producing ideas. The process fed on itself, devaluing physical ability and elevating mental ability. Nerds built the modern world - and won handsome financial rewards in the process. (Yes, I'm painting with broad strokes, but bear with me).
With the Jock/Nerd theory firmly in mind, this sentence takes on a deeper meaning:
We don't take steps to redress inequalities of looks, friends, or sex life.
Notice: For financial success, the main measure where nerds now excel, governments make quite an effort to equalize differences. But on other margins of social success, where many nerds still struggle, laissez-faire prevails.
It's suspicious - and if you combine the Jock/Nerd Theory with some evolutionary psych, it makes sense. When the best hunter in the tribe gets rich, his neighbors will probably ask nicely for a share, if they dare to ask at all. But if the biggest nerd in the tribe gets rich, how long will it take before the jocks show up and warn him that "You'd better share and share alike"?
Punchline: Through the lens of the Jock/Nerd Theory of History, the welfare state doesn't look like a serious effort to "equalize outcomes." It looks more like a serious effort to block the "revenge of the nerds" - to keep them from using their financial success to unseat the jocks on every dimension of social status.
P.S. If any jocks are reading this, please don't hurt me! I'll do your homework!
EmanuelaOrlandi posted:nice OP does it come in a not stupid / writer shouldn't stop posting color?
Sounds like somebody needs a pepsi to calm their T-zone
ArisVelouchiotis posted:10 Reasons Slavoj Žižek Is A Flawless Angel Walking Among Us
you forgot your 5, but you can have mine
Aspie_Muslim_Economist_ posted:An econ professor tries his hand at some historically grounded class analysis:
One of my pet ideas is the Jock/Nerd Theory of History. If you're reading this, you probably got a taste of it during your K-12 education, when your high grades and book smarts somehow failed to put you at the top of the social pyramid. Jocks ruled the school. If the nerds were lucky, they did the jocks' homework in exchange for decent treatment.
According to the Jock/Nerd Theory of History, most historical human societies bore a striking resemblance to K-12 education. In primitive tribes, for instance, the best hunters are on top. If the village brain knows what's good for him, he keeps his mouth shut if the best hunter says something stupid. The rise of civilization gave the nerds a better deal, but as long as almost everyone worked in agriculture, brawn continued to pay well.
But then something amazing happened: Nerds got enough breathing room to develop and implement amazing wealth-producing ideas. The process fed on itself, devaluing physical ability and elevating mental ability. Nerds built the modern world - and won handsome financial rewards in the process. (Yes, I'm painting with broad strokes, but bear with me).
With the Jock/Nerd theory firmly in mind, this sentence takes on a deeper meaning:
We don't take steps to redress inequalities of looks, friends, or sex life.
Notice: For financial success, the main measure where nerds now excel, governments make quite an effort to equalize differences. But on other margins of social success, where many nerds still struggle, laissez-faire prevails.
It's suspicious - and if you combine the Jock/Nerd Theory with some evolutionary psych, it makes sense. When the best hunter in the tribe gets rich, his neighbors will probably ask nicely for a share, if they dare to ask at all. But if the biggest nerd in the tribe gets rich, how long will it take before the jocks show up and warn him that "You'd better share and share alike"?
Punchline: Through the lens of the Jock/Nerd Theory of History, the welfare state doesn't look like a serious effort to "equalize outcomes." It looks more like a serious effort to block the "revenge of the nerds" - to keep them from using their financial success to unseat the jocks on every dimension of social status.
P.S. If any jocks are reading this, please don't hurt me! I'll do your homework!
did people really have that strict social delineation in their schools? i'm assuming it's some hollywood gay agenda claptrap but maybe some shithole like ohio or connecticut takes those things seriously i dunno
Notice: For financial success, the main measure where nerds now excel, governments make quite an effort to equalize differences.
lol
ArisVelouchiotis posted:
ArisVelouchiotis posted:9. He looks amazing in just a white T-shirt.
getfiscal posted:
David Ben Purrion
Next week on SNL: Adolphuzzy Hitler
How a TV franchise mutated into a demented hybrid of gossip generator and infomercial
James Parker | Mar 20 2013, 9:50 PM ET
From a puckered and glossy orifice in deep, deep space, it pours at an inhuman rate: gossip. Whispers, scurrilities, babble, flak. It jibber-jabbers across the galaxies, starting wars, hurtling toward us. It loops Earth in a chattering coil—once, twice—pauses, and then splatters itself technologically across the mental environment: slanderous or homicidal tweets, Entertainment Tonight, the magazine headline that you read while standing mule-like in the line at CVS, nodding and chewing. “KRIS CRIES FRAUD: I WILL MAKE KIM PAY.”
It enters our hearts, spills from our mouths. We love it. In the days before texting, when everyone just blared raggedly into their cellphones, 87 percent of overheard phone chats (according to my own research) involved the slagging or professional denigration of some third party (“And she’s making more money than me, too!”). We all do it, so the question becomes: Can you get paid to do it? And the answer, of course, is oh my God yes. You can write for Us Weekly or In Touch Weekly. You can traffic in the brimstone gossip of TMZ. Keep your camera phone primed for the flash of bootleg celeb flesh: nip slip, sideboob, upskirt (good name for a fictional law firm). Or—and this is the jackpot—you can get on TV as a real housewife.
When Bravo’s Real Housewives franchise began, way back in the time of legend—2006—its intentions were pure. Pure‑ish. A kind of reality-show decoction/rip-off of ABC’s god-awful drama Desperate Housewives, it sought simply to entertain. The first episodes of Real Housewives of Orange County even had a tenderly sociological feel to them: “7 million families live in gated communities,” a caption informed us, as the camera panned across sun-dazed forecourts and peered into porno swimming grottoes. “Behind the gates … ,” “through the gates … ,” here were the pampered ladies, released by affluence into a layer of rare and life-threatening triviality. Sure, there were jobs, even “careers,” but always in the service of some huger, more immobilizing luxury. Gilded cages, sprinkled lawns, flaming or frozen marital beds. And gossip, hissing jets of gossip—gossip among women, or among women and men, or to the camera, or launched at the heavens like a Shakespearean monologue.
Orange County was eventually followed by Real Housewives of New York City, Real Housewives of Atlanta, Real Housewives of New Jersey, Real Housewives of D.C. (canceled after one season due to a transcontinental snoring sound), Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, and Real Housewives of Miami. And there have been spin‑offs of the spin‑offs, too, as the most hardheaded and fit-for-reality participants have landed their own sub-shows: New York City’s famished-looking Bethenny Frankel, for instance, was awarded Bethenny Ever After, and Lisa Vanderpump, the raspingly conspiratorial doyenne of Beverly Hills, enjoys further airtime in Vanderpump Rules.
Frankel and Vanderpump—I love typing that: Vanderpump, Vanderpump—are of the newer breed of real housewife: the prowling entrepreneuse, with whose help Real Housewives has mutated into a previously unthinkable hybrid of gossip generator and demented infomercial. Frankel has her Skinnygirl Cocktails and Vitamin Power Packets and shapewear; Vanderpump runs Sur, “L.A.’s sexiest restaurant.” Other real housewives, in other cities, have made (or pondered) branded runs at the wine business, the wig business, the skin-care business, the bedroom-toy business. Down in Atlanta, as I write, real housewives are tussling over the highly vendible concept of “Donkey Booty.” Phaedra Parks and her husband, Apollo, came up with it: a workout DVD designed to “curve that booty and make it more voluptuous.” You know, like a donkey’s. They called upon the industry savvy of real housewife Kenya, a former Miss USA, and the Donkey Booty project moved forward. Phaedra envisioned her cast: “An array of ladies. Flat heinies, tutti-fruttis, juicy booties …” But then—with Phaedra’s lawyer eavesdropping like Polonius—the deal falls apart. Phaedra won’t pay Kenya her 10 percent. Kenya takes umbrage, strikes back with her own horse’s-ass fitness concept: “Stallion Booty.” Ladies, please, can’t we think outside the box? Ferret Booty, Subaru Booty, Cormac McCarthy Booty …
But the branding, and the products—none of it makes sense without the gossip. Gossip keeps the matrix humming. On a recent episode of Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, Brandi—youngest, tallest, and most destructively beautiful of the Beverly Hills crew, whose husband ran off with LeAnn Rimes and who plays the crucial mythic role of instigator/nut job—uttered something so ghastly, so Munch’s-Scream scandalizing, about fellow Real Housewife Adrienne that we weren’t even allowed to hear it (the sound dropped out for a second), only to observe the violence of its effects in housewife world: gasps and widening eyes, a threatened lawsuit, and Adrienne’s snouty plastic-surgeon husband getting in Brandi’s face and calling her a “piece of shit.” Wow. Super-high-frequency gossip, too evilly shrill to be audible—except perhaps to gossip canines.
There are universalities to real housewife–hood: the wincing air kisses with which they greet one another, and the cries of “You look hot!” or “You’re so skinny!”; the shifting alliances and behind-the-back bitcheries; the viperous lunch parties, with their protestations of friendship. But there are differences, too, city to real-housewife city. Atlanta has the most businesslike businesswomen; New Jersey is the most tribal, the families moving in large, noisy packs; Miami’s real housewives throw petals into the sea to rid themselves of negativity; in Beverly Hills they have psychics flush their houses. In Beverly Hills and Miami, too, the plastic surgeon plies most visibly his sinister trade: here we see the stretched eyes and the rubberized smiles, the reaction shots that show no reaction. To be a real housewife is to be in a cage match with middle age. Existence is weightless but, oh, gravity—it drags at the sagging epidermis. What are you going to do? “Kill the triceps, beautiful, good, great range of motion, good symmetry,” murmurs a personal trainer, devotionally, as Real Housewife Yolanda puffs away on her Californian carpet.
Real Housewives of New Jersey is my favorite. The women are gum-chewing and beach-tawny, with torrents of expensive hair. They make clashing sounds in their enormous kitchens while thick-limbed husbands lumber about in the background. This is the empire of Teresa Giudice, she of the extraordinary hazel eyes and hairline pulled down like a hat on a windy day. Teresa is New Jersey’s instigator/nut job—“You’re crazy!” “No, you’re crazy!”—and what a job she does, not only undermining the other real housewives with the usual death-rattle tittle-tattle, but regularly smearing them on the cover of In Touch, with which she has a gossip-industrial relationship. “TERESA TELLS ALL: Jacqueline Skips Reunion After a ‘Mental Breakdown.’ ” And yet you can’t help feeling for her. Joe Giudice, her husband, is brutal. He moves across the screen like a clot of testosterone, occasionally fondling a dumbbell. He might be about to go to prison—“go away,” as they say in New Jersey—for allegedly forging his driver’s license. “I support you in everything,” says Teresa pitifully, “and, you know, I love you, and …” Grunts Joe: “I mean, whaddaya gonna do?”
And by the mad science of Real Housewives, the products keep coming—actual things that exist in the world, that you can buy. Moisturizers, nutrition bars, Donkey Booty workout DVDs, cookbooks by Teresa Giudice. Brandi Glanville—Beverly Hills Brandi—just published a memoir about the collapse of her marriage: Drinking & Tweeting and Other Brandi Blunders. Those of us who have been watching Real Housewives of Beverly Hills know that this was not the book’s planned title—Brandi wanted it to be It’s A Breakup, Not Cancer: How I Got the Fuck Over It. (“Well, you can’t put fuck in the title,” said her agent with quiet finality.) Sample confession: “White wine became my constant shoulder to lean on.” Anybody else got a book deal? In need of a ghostwriter, perhaps? Because I know a bright young fellow. His rates are very reasonable. Come on, real housewives. Let me help.
By JENNIFER SCHUESSLER
A specter is haunting university history departments: the specter of capitalism.
After decades of “history from below,” focusing on women, minorities and other marginalized people seizing their destiny, a new generation of scholars is increasingly turning to what, strangely, risked becoming the most marginalized group of all: the bosses, bankers and brokers who run the economy.