Skip to content

An Advert Can Be Beautiful in The Right Shade of Death

  • by
  • 2 min read

by Tim Frank

Highway billboards pose with aviator shades and subliminal messages, wading through puddles of horror.

A will, prepared by cutthroat lawyers to fleece my dad’s nearest and dearest, falls flat. He wanted everything; he got nearly nothing—just like in the movies. So, I advise him to settle for a coffin with wheels—the undertaker says it’s the best.

Standing on the funeral parlour’s mezzanine floor, I gaze at the adverts for the afterlife, and I feel nothing but heartfelt resentment.

The war is over, so commercials can thrive again. Profit margins soar. Banksy expresses my feelings in a way I cannot—like his mural by the riverside projects. Basically, I’m saying I couldn’t care less.

Look at the VHS on the dusty shelf—an archive of famous lies; look at the government players, seducing virgins in nationwide broadcasts; look at the shop windows as mannequins fly too close to the sun.

Did you know psychosis can drown soldiers in the deep sea? Don’t worry, it’ll all be supervised and filmed for the public—and usually only one in ten will die.

We know this much at least: there is sense in compiling a fortress of well-thumbed books, and there’s safety in numbers, but the clear consumer favourite is the mother’s milk, because it tastes like mirror balls and mosquito blood.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *