Published on April 16th, 2006 | by The Beige Baron


On The Verge #49



As part of his contract with Subway, Jared has to carry a sandwich with him wherever he goes.

As part of his contract with Subway, Jared has to carry a sandwich with him wherever he goes.


The inanity of advertisements is nothing new, and complaining about it is even older. Unless you’re in prison, you’d be better off without Dick Wick’s Electromagnetic Blanket or a pillow full of batteries, but hating on advertisements entered a Renaissance with the appearance of Jared S. Fogle, the Subway sandwich spokesman.

Never has my sense of incredulity been so sorely tested than when faced with Fogle flogging faux fat-free fare. Mark Taylor could sell Fujitsu to the Eskimos before Jared could get me to eat a sandwich out of his sweaty hand.

One example of the ingenuity from the Subway marketing department has Jared standing in front of a table of perfectly prepared Subway sandwiches. It is a meta-commercial in which Jared is aware he is in a commercial, yet expresses relief when the take is over so he can take a break from extolling the virtues of the perfectly prepared Subway sandwiches before him to walk across town to see what perfectly prepared sandwiches they’re making in Subway that day.

While Jared’s weight loss may seem crazy incredible and sexy amazing, let’s all having a nice cup of calm the fuck down while we give this cock a newsflash: you’re still fat. Two of you won’t make either look slimmer.

Any restaurant that doubles its menu by offering cooked or uncooked dishes should be avoided as a matter of common sense, but personally, I am more dubious of any establishment that stakes its advantage on the weight or the length of its meals. A 12oz steak light on the beef is one thing, but Subway’s Foot-Long Sweet Chicken Teriyaki can kiss my sweet foot-long. Even the most excessive sandwich could be squashed into a bite-sized ball.

If the internet ever gets boring and you still want to see twelve inches of fat disappear into someone’s mouth, then go to Subway.


Author Doreen Virtue is touring Australia in October, coinciding with the release of her book Goddesses & Angels. According to the presser, Doreen Virtue is the world’s leading authority on angels. Doreen plans to hold a seminar in Melbourne teaching people how to connect with angels for guidance, healing, companionship, relationships or maybe something more.

Connections to celestial beings are made possible by way of Doreen’s patented Angel Phone Card™. Interested parties need only wait until the Land of Supernatural Telecommunications arrives at the top of the Faraway Tree. Once the tree is scaled (taking care not to arouse the ire of the Angry Pixie), you need summon a sales imp to obtain a card. Then select from to a variety of recorded angel messages*. It’s fun, it’s safe, and it’s a great way to meet angels, says Doreen.

To verify Ms Virtue’s claims, On The Verge spent an afternoon with Jo, Dick and Fanny pulling weeds, and once our chores were completed, we visited The Enchanted Forest. There were heaps of messages to choose from: Archangel Gabrielle, for example, enjoys smiting, swordplay, and the feel of fabric-softened robes playing about his calves. AngelGuy76 likes materializing suddenly before local peasants and performing other practical jokes on poor hicks nobody would ever believe.

Our fun was spoiled when the magical world suddenly changed to the Land of Outraged Sheriffs, who demanded immediate payment of our overdue Pixie Cards, and we escaped down the tree in a shower of threatening letters.

Angels & Goddesses can be yours in three easy monthly payments of $49.95.

* Calls cost $5.99 per minute. Mobiles may attract a higher rate.


Tonight at an undisclosed Sydney hotel, a VIP gala dinner will be taking place sponsored by PBL and L’Oreal for the Just Enough Faith Foundation. VIPs include Mel C aka Sporty Spice, who is in Australia by unrelated coincidence plugging her aptly-titled album Beautiful Intentions. Speaking of paving the road to hell, also in attendance is Bruticus Telephonicus Maximus — the mighty Russell Crowe. By another coincidental twist in the road, the dinner coincides with the screening of Crowe’s Cinderella Man.

Today, final arrangements are being made to remove all telecommunications devices from the hotel while reception staff evacuated. Meanwhile, management carry out final checks to ensure no references to “ginger” or “spice” have made their way onto the menu.

As the impending arrival of Russell Crowe’s private jet loomed closer, Chief of Hotel Security, Lance Bakewell insisted the giant ice sculpture of a glass slipper be removed from the dining room “at least four hours before rubber meeting tarmac” amid fears that shards could be removed and used as what he described as “deadly icicles capable of cutting even the fiercest warrior to ribbons”.

Creator of the giant slipper, a French ice sculptor known only as Henri the Magnificent, was “beside himself with Gallic rage”.

Hotel management have issued a statement assuring guests and the media that all necessary preparations have been made so that a wonderful night may be had by all, and that “hands-free telephones, wall-mounted behind a protective wire mesh screen, will be available for use by any guest who requests one.”


In demonstration against the use of emaciated supermodels featured in beauty advertising, and to defend their right to help Unilever United States Inc increase its market share for the next quarter, a bevy of “real” women took to the streets of Sydney this week to promote real curves and body confidence.

In celebration of this shift in perception, and in an effort to sell a shitload of extra tubs of Firming cream and earn the marketing team a sweet bonus, Dove is conducting a nationwide search for “women with curves they are happy with to take part in our Curvy Calendar Girls promotion”.

Dove understands that real beauty comes in many shapes and sizes, and if only rake-thin women bought their products, the company could never hope to meet its quarterly sales budgets.

A spokesperson from the Ponds Institute confirmed that even if Dove failed to attract additional customers — but instead work to increase the net weight of each of its current customers by stroking their hands and telling them to go ahead and eat the last jelly donut — it could potentially sell an extra 40,000 litres of beauty balm a month. In an expedient move, Dove chose this week to launch its “Buy Our 40lt Maxi Pump Lotion Pack And Get A Free Carton Of Pies” campaign.

Perhaps fearing no Real Women were prepared to step forward and be photographed in a state of undress, then pasted onto a 60ft billboard to be ogled at by passers by, Dove broke open the coffers by promising the winning calendar girls a free trip to Sydney , a few bars of soap, and a pair of undies. Considering successful plus-sized female models can expect to earn thousands per magazine shoot, this seems like an excellent deal.

For more details on how to be exploited by a multinational while ostensibly fighting a noble cause, visit


On Friday excitable punk rockers Something With Numbers fired off a press release announcing that the band’s “fourth birthday” was imminent. The fellas are planning to celebrate this musical landmark with a 20-date tour that will hit the Evelyn Hotel on October 7.

Showing that their generosity matches their enthusiasm, the Something With Numbers crew have also announced that it’s the band and not the punters who’ll be “giving out the presents”, as they plan to issue a special edition EP that “will NOT be released in stores”. Five hundred of these CDs will be available through the band’s website and at their shows.

The response in Melbourne to this electrifying news was muted. The level of excitement within the Melbourne streetpress plateaued at sub-Elliott Goblet levels. Moreover, a quick straw poll revealed that the general public wasn’t aware of the band’s approaching birthday. Some didn’t even realise that bands had birthdays, while others wanted to know who the fuck Something With Numbers were anyway.

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Groping for trouts in a peculiar river.

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