Cocks in the Coke

by

Krystal Mesmer

&

Goddess Marquesa

I had the good fortune to meet an interesting sub the other day. A genuine “Mad Man” whose advertising career dates back to when the hit TV show takes place.

I was telling him of our travails. The problems we have with credit card processors. And how we are being censored right out of our rights to use the words, “hypnosis,” “mind control” and “subliminal.”

At that, he gave me a piece of history that I’d like to share with you. Much of the problem, he said, probably has its roots in the Korean War.

It was the Red Chinese who first engaged in “mind control” and “brainwashing” to persuade a few American POWs to defect, he explained. There were never that many defectors, but the terms stuck, scaring the shit out of Americans. That was in the early ’50s, and the seeds of nefarious “mind control” methods had been planted.

A little later, somebody conducted some now discredited “experiments” in which movie audiences were flashed “subliminal” commercials messages such as “Buy Popcorn;” these were said to increase sales (which turned out to be bullshit).

But my Mad Man said the damage was done, and “subliminal” also became a dirty word, and which invited scrutiny by the federal government. Anything that smacked of “subliminal” persuasion was thereafter deemed illegal and subject to a priori censorship–an unusual measure in this country.

Things got even worse when Ernest Dichter, a crackpot psychologist who ran something called “The Institute for Motivational Research” on behalf of the McCann-Erickson ad agency as it sought new ways to sell more Coca-Cola. Dichter claimed that all successful advertising contained “subliminal” elements, and if you looked carefully enough, you could see peckers and pussies hidden in photography and art work.

This really sent the industry and the FTC off the deep end, my Mad Man said. The feds went looking for cocks in the Coke; advertisers promised never to put them there. The whole thing was stupid and unfounded, but, blessed by an academic like Dichter, the notion that there are genitalia hiding in the Jello, though greatly diminished, remains in force today.

Imagine that?  I’ll bet you all here on Inraptured can indeed imagine that!  🙂

The Little Black Dress

Real women have a secret, one which I am about to share with you.

It’s about that fabled “Little Black Dress,” or LBD.

LBDs come in women’s . . . juniors . . . talls . . . petites . . . Big Beautiful sizes . . . and those tiny little “0” sizes that only fit runway models and runaway heiresses.

Every woman has at least one. I, of course, have several dozen; most are the hand-sewn creations of couturiers; all are the gifts of slaves.

But money is not the point of the Little Black Dress. Good taste—and stopping traffic—are.

You see, there can only be one star to a show. And the Little Black Dress, unadorned and simple, allows the woman who is wearing it to be that star.

Gurls would do well to remember this. Real Goddesses eschew fashion, but embrace style.

When I am wearing one of my LBDs, I want no competition from too many accessories. I am the star. Diamonds, pearls and emeralds, no matter how fine and breathtaking, are merely supporting players.

So gurls, we are all going to get LBDs, aren’t we? Plus we are going to throw those horrid, cheap plastic accessories out

To help you refine your sense of style, your Goddess clipped this article from the internet for you.

Read it carefully and learn. There will be a quiz in the fitting room.

For all you GURLS of any and each gender! 😉

ARTICLE:  http://www.foxnews.com/imag/Style/The+10+Sexiest+Little+Black+Dresses (This Link is no longer active)

Lady Krystal Mesmer

Hello darlings!

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Who Decorates Your Tree?

One of life’s more wonderful family traditions this time of year is decorating the Christmas Tree.

In some homes, Mom does it. In others, just the kids. And in others, the whole family gathers ’round to do the honors.

But in My house growing up, it was My father who trimmed our tree. It was his special job every year. And part of Me still thinks that as soon as one year’s tree was finished and lit, he began to plan how to make the next one even more spectacular.

My father began each tree in early November. And when I was old enough, he would take Me with him on his visits to nurseries, farmers, grocers . . . anyone who might be selling tress come December. He sought nothing less than a perfect tree (Pine? Fir? What kind I never really knew) and would charm and persuade (or bargain and cajole if he needed to) everyone to reserve the best of the best for his inspection.

By early December, he would start to get calls. “We’ve got just the tree for you” every dealer would say. So once again, my father and I would spend whole weekends traveling, this time to “look over the goods” as he would say.

Finally, the week before Christmas, he would make his choice. Some years we would have to drive for hours to pick it up. Other years, we were within walking distance of the seller. But no matter where he got it, the tree was always just perfect.

Then he began the real work, sequestering himself like an artist, alone with his tree. He’d put it in a stand and circle it for hours, constantly adjusting so that it stood rock solid and perfectly straight. As he put it, an artist needs a good canvas in a sturdy easel.

He would unroll yards and yards of lights—the old-fashioned Noma kind with the narrow faceted bulbs—all connected in series so that if one went out, the whole string went dark. He spent hours untangling wires and replacing bulbs (where he got them I don’t know) until the whole room seemed to glow from the floor.

He always strung the tree from deep inside, starting at the bottom. “Sure,” he would say, “it’s easier to put the lights on the ends of the branches, but this way, the tree glows from within. Makes everything sparkle like Santa himself did the work.”

Once he was satisfied the tree was truly glowing from within, he was ready to hang the ornaments. By now, he would have already unpacked them. He would discard the glass globes that had cracked or broken in storage. He would carefully buy replacements, which, each year seemed to cost more and more, yet looked less and less as good as the old ones.

One by one he hung those ornaments according to sketches he made. He knew exactly where each one would go, and would often use my mother’s sewing tape to make sure everything went precisely where it was supposed to go. He left nothing to chance.

By this time, the tree always looked finished to My mother, My sister and I. But my father still had his finishing touches to add: Garlands made of thousands of thousands of glass beads, spinning from the tree top in almost never-ending spirals—with not a bead broken, not bead out of place.

And then there was the tinsel. Pounds and pounds of the old fashioned lead kind. Linguini, he would call it. Shiny lead linguini, each strand set one-by-one, strand-by strand, until the tree was picture perfect.

Every year, the papers feature photos of the White House tree or the Rockefeller Center tree. And every year, My father added a picture of our tree to his scrap book. The old ones are in black and white of course, but you can almost feel the color hidden in them. The old Kodacolors are faded, but they, too, seem to glow as if my father had invested them with some sort of magical electricity.

My father is old now. Time and arthritis have stolen some of his tree trimming gifts, but not his memory, nor ours. Every year when I visit My parents, out comes the scrap book where we relive Christmasses past, and my father, bless him, decorates old trees anew

• This Diary Entry was Originally Posted by Krystal Mesmer December 22, 2011

  The war against sex continues.

  As I recall, the 2010 census said there are now more than 300,000,000 of us.

  But given the way some communities react to the whole idea of s-e-x, it’s amazing any of us are being born at all. It is as if the whole country is at war against sex. Or more accurately, adults.

  Consider the item below from CBS in St. Louis. The powers that be in the town of Pevely, Missouri, won’t supply municipal water to an adult toy store in an effort to drive it out of town.

  I am not an attorney, so I cannot comment on the legal aspects of the case that is brewing here. But as a businesswoman, I see certain economic realities that the Pevely town fathers seem to have missed.

  First, the Pure Pleasure Boutique is part of a chain. It is rare for a multi-store merchant to locate a store in a community that has not shown at least some interest in buying his goods, filthy and disgusting as they might be. (A little humor here, please.)

  Second, the public votes with its dollars. (Or as bricks and mortar retailers would say, its feet.) If there is no call for a Pure Pleasure Boutique in Pevely as the town fathers assert, why not let the business fail on its own? That would sure teach the owner a lesson.

  But, no, somebody has got to make a point.

  Well, so do I. And the point is, so long as the Pure Pleasure Boutique is selling nothing illegal in Pevely, they ought to be let alone to slug it out in the world of business. There, one may win or one may lose . . . but may do so without having to capriciously kiss the asses of local busybodies, bluenoses and poobahs.

  Oh, yes. And before I forget, HAPPY NEW YEAR!

  Let’s hope we see less of these idiotic news articles in 2012.

  Missouri City Refuses To Turn On Water For Adult Sex-Shop

   

  December 21, 2011 10:54 AM

  PEVELY, Mo. (CBS St. Louis) — A Missouri city is fighting back against an adult sex-shop by not turning on the store’s water as the owner takes his case against the town to federal court.

  The battle over Don Kleinhans’ Pure Pleasure Boutique in Pevely, Mo., began more than a year ago when he applied for a business license but was denied by the town. He decided to open his store last December despite the fact of not having a business license.

  Pevely city administrator Jason Eisenbeis told CBS St. Louis that Kleinhans was denied a business license because the store violated a town ordinance of being 1,000 feet within an elementary school and a church.

  “It’s not exactly in our eyes legal,” Eisenbeis said in reference to Kleinhans keeping the shop open. “They were issued summons for almost a year on a daily basis … We’re spinning our wheels here.”

  Despite not having running water in the store, Eisenbeis said they have portable toilets outside the shop and electricity.

  Kleinhans originally filed a lawsuit against the city in January to acquire a business license, saying it court records that it is not an “adult store” and that it is a “novelty shop.”

  The city won another round against the sex shop on Monday as Pevely’s Board of Aldermen voted 6-0 to deny Kleinhans a business license again.

  “The city of Pevely and the Board of Aldermen are sticking to their guns,” Eisenbeis told CBS St. Louis.

  The case is back in the hands of a federal judge as Kleinhans hopes to keep the sex shop open. There are three other Pure Pleasure sex shops in Missouri.

  CBS St. Louis has reached out to Kleinhans for comment