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The Lynx effect

I never thought it would happen, I never in my most fevered imaginings dreamed it COULD happen. But happen it has. An advert has come along featuring a character more revolting, more nauseating, more dreams of extreme violence creating than that kid in the Frosties ad whon chirped relentlessly on about how they were gonna taste great. You know the one, that whitebread grinning fucking robot who reminded you of nothing so much as the evil football hero at primary school who made it his personal mission to make your life hell. He's number two now.

That Lynx ad. The FHM wet dream of an impressive number of glossy, bikini clad godesses scrambling to be the first to reach that goon on the beach. Yes. Him.

Leaving aside the terrifying intellectual poverty of the premise itself there's just something about his gormlessly lustful expression which causes every muscle in my body to tense, except those engaged in moving my head and eyes as I instinctively look round for something to hit him with. And those strange contortions of his arms and torso as he stares bug-eyed at the hordes of incoming beauties. Ther Lynx ad tells me this: we live in the twenty first century, every day jaw-dropping scientific advances are made, the sum of human culture grows ever stronger as musicians and artists add to the millenia's accretions of work affirming our humanity, our spark of the divine. To be human is to have limitless potential, it is to create, to discover, to advance. But it's still more desirable to be trampled to death by women with big tits as a direct result of spraying some cheap noxious chemicals on your scrawny frame. Humanity needs to take a long hard look at itself

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