Wood Chopper II

Once again, thank you, Madison Avenue, for destroying everything that I hold holy. Watching a Victoria's Secret commercial the other night, and just as I'm getting into "the groove," imagining six of the models showing up at my front door for a pillow fight, the unmistakably greasy mug of Bob Dylan appears on screen to topple even the sturdiest of hard-ons and leave me gasping for oxygen.

Who's brainchild is this twisted opus? Who was sitting in the boardroom and said, "Well, the gorgeous, thong-clad asses and ample breasts barely being contained by our lingerie are nice, but what this thing really needs is... Bob Dylan"? And could this person please be administered a hornet enema at once?

Folks, I sat back and took it like a man when they shrunk G.I. Joe from his stately 12 inches to a lowly 6. But this ain't gonna stand. You can't have this one, ad people. Give me back my T&A, and I like it refreshingly devoid of guitar strumming geezers. Christ, I can see that on the corner outside my apartment... but Naomi Campbell in satin and wings? That's magic that only TV can deliver.