Last year, an amoebic cosmic blob supplanted the male CEO ego as the largest known thing in the universe.

Fashion advertising is usually done in-house by edgy art directors named Andr who are even more overpaid than me and who truly believe they're "artists" but who seriously don't know their ads from a hole in the ground, so they hire edgy photographers and pay them a shitload of money to shoot their singular vision, which is usually either models pretending that they're stoned or models pretending that they're dead—but definitely edgy models to help justify their label's 500 dollar price tag for cotton pants with holes in them.

Taglines, or slogans as you civilians call them, are the bows on our shiny ad packages of bullshit.

Snuggle. Mr. Opportunity. These are numbers two & three on my all-time makes-me-curse-out-loud ad icons list. Number one is the Balvenie Guy. Or, as I call him—the Balvenie Weenie .

When a canvassing Jehovah's Witness stealthily slipped a pamphlet under my girlfriend's door recently, I saw it as a sign from God—a sign to critically examine the marketing prowess of the J-Dubs.

Beano. Gremlin. Gawker. In addition to making up product benefits, making up product names is also part of an ad copywriter's job. Over the last 15 years, I've made up thousands of names for copiers, cupcakes, wines, stereos, vitamins, breakfast cereals, a client's daughter's babysitting business, etc. And not one of my submissions has ever been used.

It's that time of year again. Time to observe how ad agency and "brand architects" Team One—part of the Saatchi & Saatchi billion dollar clusterfuck of agencies, which is part of the even bigger Publicis global ad conglomerape—attempts to lure middle class consumers into further debt by gifting a fucking Lexus.

All advertising bends the truth. The Fake Testimonial bends the truth over its knee and savagely fists it. It is the lowest form of advertising. That's real low.

Isn't AIDS advertising so fucking sexy? It is the hippest, hautest disease advertising in the world. And African children with AIDS advertising? O. M. G. So. Fucking. Hot. Gwynnie. Heidi. Penelope. Bowie. Stingy. The sexiest of the coolest A+ celebs are all over that shit like the white on the rice that African children with AIDS don't have to eat.

First, before you get your panties/manties in a bunch, this rant is not about Kenneth Cole the human being, or even Kenneth Cole the businessman. It's about Kenneth Cole the copywriter. Because Cole is THE worst advertising copywriter in the history of the world, hands and feet down.

No misguided sociological commentary this week. Just a trilogy of true terror tales from deep inside conference room tombs. Conference rooms filled with the scary stupidity that is advertising.

In a front-page piece in Sunday's Arts section titled "The Starbucks (cough) Aesthetic",
New York Times writer Susan Dominus swallowed gobs of Frappuccino foam in the process of fellating SBUX to an impressive length and girth of over 2300 words. I'm not here to debate the taste of their government contractor-priced coffee (sucks). But, when the word "aesthetic" (aka "brand" aka "bullshit") is printed about the offerings of a chain of 12,500 cookie-cutter coffee shops without even a cinnamon sprinkle of irony, my off day has become a work day. Who the fuck do they think they're kidding? Oh, that's right. Millions of you lemmings proudly plod around with what CEO Howard Schultz calls the Starbucks "halo." Jesus.

This year, Donny Deutsch, the biggest douchebag in the advertising industry, started "writing" a Gotham magazine feature for the Napoleonic-complexed Jason Binn, the biggest douchebag in the magazine industry, ingeniously titled "Deutsch Mark" (a quick copyright search finds that "I Suck The Ass Of An Ass Beast" is also unclaimed, Don). The gig has ended up being, quite blatantly, a monthly one-page advertorial for Deutsch's trailblazing CNBC show, The Big Idea.

The lies you are about to read are, actually, not at all well-disguised. That's because there is no disguising the bare-naked bullshit of New York real estate advertising. But, how does one justify charging 1, 2, THREE mil for two small empty rooms? You just have to make pretend you're selling units of Kubla Khan's pleasure dome and adjust your use of language accordingly. "Renovated" becomes "luxury." "Cheap marble" becomes "couture." And "Jade Jagger" becomes "designer."

October 3, 1995, 1:00 P.M. EST. Where were you when it happened? I was in a midtown studio with J.K. Simmons recording a radio spot for...garbage. J.K. was the voice of billion dollar trash company BFI. While I'm still writing garbage every day, JK has moved on to better things. But this day is not about J.K. It's about O.J.

Over the weekend, city spas were booked to the gills with ad execs getting deep tissue neck massages in preparation for this weeks' self-fellating proceedings: Grab your cocks and Paul Smith socks! It's Advertising Week 2006!