‘By the way, if anyone here is in marketing or advertising…kill yourself. Thank you. Just planting seeds, planting seeds is all I’m doing. No joke here, really. Seriously, kill yourself, you have no rationalisation for what you do, you are Satan’s little helpers. Kill yourself, kill yourself, kill yourself now. Now, back to the show. Seriously, I know the marketing people: ‘There’s gonna be a joke comin’ up.’ There’s no fuckin’ joke. Suck a tail pipe, hang yourself…borrow a pistol from an NRA buddy, do something…rid the world of your evil fuckin’ presence.’

Bill Hicks

If anyone doubts the wisdom of Bill Hicks and his philosophy / plea then look no further than ‘Jason’ from the RACV ad, the latest in a long line of single cell plebs the RACV marketing department have created over the last few years.  If you’re unfamiliar with Jason and his cohort of misfit colleagues, well, I envy you, but I will also ruin your life by directing you see them in action here.  I challenge anyone previously unfamiliar with them, to now not wish a masked bandit enter their office and shoot them dead with poison arrows, leaving them pinned to their chairs, muttering about how much they can save you as they slowly die and rot in eternal advertising hell.

The RACV marketing department needs to be dragged in front of parliament in the same way Murdoch & Son were last month.  They have serious questions to answer about why they have subjected the Australian public to the pain of sitting through, not only Jason, but all the other more-irritating-than-an-itchy-arse-in-public morons they have produced over the past few years.  Are they serious that they want us to buy insurance from these so called humans?  I wouldn’t even let that disgusting, slimy, shampooless, ironless, top-buttonless, combless, eyebrow-trimmerless MIRRORLESS DICKLESS Jason squeegee my windshield at the traffic lights.  These people don’t look they have the mental capacity to tie their shoelaces let alone handle my home, car and contents insurance.  If Jason and his brainless oxygen thieving friends were an aberration I might be able to let them pass, but sadly they are not…

The Alien Abduction guy – What if he and his whole family are abducted by aliens?  Well, halle-fricking-lujah, that would be cause for celebration!  Perhaps the aliens could swing by the RACV marketing department on their way back to Mars and abduct them too.  I think we can all agree that a few weeks of alien anal probing would be sufficient punishment for the crime of creating these simpler-than-pre-school-maths RACV characters.  The only possible downside to this guy and his family getting abducted is that the aliens might think they are representative of the Earth’s intelligence, and that would seriously damage Earth’s reputation in outer space.  All the centuries of advancements in science, the arts, the environment, medicine and engineering would mean nothing if this guy was Earth’s representative in outer space.  Our credibility as an advanced species would be shot.

This guy would be bad news for his captors too.  The aliens who abducted him would be a laughing stock, their peers would tease and ridicule them.  I can imagine all the alien abductors standing around in their alien bars comparing their respective abductees.  ‘Did you hear about that guy Zorg got – hahaha, what a waste of a trip that was!’  Zorg and his team would have zero abduction credibility.  It wouldn’t even be worth their effort to fly back from Mars to drop him off and abduct someone else.

The Sub Woofing Granny – This Granny says that as an RACV customer you save money each year you are a member – 5 years, 5%, 10 years, 10% (in her diddly Granny voice) and so on.  She claims to save 20%, now I’m no Will Hunting, but by my reckoning this pattern follows that our Granny has been a member for 20 years.  Now if she got her license at 18 that would make her 38 years old.  Jesus, my grandma is 84 and she doesn’t look anywhere near as old the Sub Woofing Granny!  Clearly this old dear has lost her marbles and should not be driving.  I certainly do not want to be sharing the road with some senile old lady who thinks she is 38 years, can’t hear because of her ‘wicked sub woofer’ and who can’t see because the hydraulics in her car are shaking her around.  No thanks.  Get her off the road and into a home, where the worst thing she could do is spill a cup of English Breakfast tea.

The Complete Me couple – These two anxious-hyperactive-beady-eyed-non-blinking-head-in-the-freezer serial killers say they belong together.  They do, but what a couple of freaks – they have no place in free society.  I bet you anything that lampshade is made from the skin of a small child, and those pieces of ‘art’ on the coffee table have caved in a head or two.  For these two misfits an institution would be an easy transition from their spotless-sterile-white-pillow-happy-house.  They could bounce around all day and night laughing hysterically about how ‘perfect’ their cells are and how ‘completely – complete’ their life is ‘NOTHING BUT THE BEST!  NOTHING BUT THE BEST!’ as they bang their heads against the walls.  Their so called friends (an ambitious claim itself) agree they are made for each other – well people will say anything when they are pleading for their life.  Judging by the insane look this guy gets in his eyes about PETS! (0:22) I wouldn’t be surprised if the neighbours’ cats and dogs were strung up and drying in his shed out the back.  Sure, they are ‘made for each other’ and ‘complete each other’, just like Myra Hindley and Ian Brady.

The Insurance Assessors – For whatever reason, these two dickwads Reg and Alex ended up making a whole series of ads, in the process inflicting more pain than was necessary not only on the general public, but the poor lady who kept having her house broken into and having these two dweebs turn up.  If I saw these guys coming up my pathway I would wish for the right to the second US amendment, so I could dispose of them before they trampled through my house with their bad haircuts and even worse puns.

The Miniature Train Man – This guy looks like he pisses off his whole family with his stupid miniature train set that runs through his entire property and house.  It is no surprise to see he stills lives with his mother, even after marriage and three kids.  His wife is obviously so ashamed to be with him she doesn’t want to show her face on television.  If he died and it was found that she was slowly poisoning him, I would not, could not, convict her of any crime.  Imagine how happy she must have been, on the day she returned home from work to find a miniature train line leading right in to her bedroom!  I bet all her girlfriends were jealous when she excitedly rang to tell them the great news.  It’s a safe bet that since hubby installed the tracks, the only thing being ridden in that room is the train.

As far as his kids go, they look clinically depressed.  They don’t even change expression as dad rides right in front of whatever they were watching on TV.  They surely have no friends.  When (or if) they do start dating they will have some weird explaining to do.  ‘Your dad has what running through his house?  Ok, well, I’m kinda seeing someone else, but good luck…’ They can thank their dad for a lifetime of celibacy, bullying and social isolation.  I’m sure they would be ecstatic, and immediately out the door, if they discovered they were adopted.

The only person who seems to get any pleasure from dad riding on the model train set is the creepy fat guy in the blue jumpsuit who peers through the window.  He is the classic train-nut-friendless-virgin who lives in the shed and masturbates to the thought of riding naked into his male friend’s bedroom all aboard the Chub Love Express.  I don’t know where the Miniature Railway Club of Victoria is, that this guy belongs to, but if it’s anywhere near me – I’m moving house!

What market research team has shown RACV that putting these cretins in ads actually attracts customers?  If the serial killing Complete Me couple broke into my house trying to kill me but I wasn’t home so they stole my suits and Playstations and 23 games, I certainly wouldn’t want to talk to Jason about my problems and then have Reg & Alex come visit my house and make jokes at my expense,

‘Sorry we’re late, the traffic was murder!’

‘FUCK OFF ALEX!’

Someone at RACV please please please, put at end to these arseclowns trying to sell us peace of mind during times of hardship.  I don’t believe Jason could even colour within the lines, let alone handle my insurance claims.

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