And Now for a Public Relations Gappe

In case you missed it, or weren't amongst the outraged, cybertorch-wielding throng, your throat not quite ragged as you screamed for blood-- there was a wee little bit of a problem when the GAP (or is it just "GAP"?) tried to change its logo.

A week later, they changed it back. Because people were taking to the streets, beheading each other and burning shit in effigy.

Here's the obligatory picture, so you know what the hell I'm talking about, in case you don't already:



Crazy shit, yeah?

I know, take a deep breath-- it's okay. They changed it back. I swear. After exhausting thousands of underage Chinese prostitutes, working feverishly for thirty-seven hours a day to manufacture labels and bags with the new logo on it-- they changed it back, because tons of white people wearing tennis bracelets and frilly underpants got a little excited. And not in the good way.

In case you didn't know, GAP is a big fucking deal. I mean, 750,273 people "Like" it on Facebook, so it must be, you know, totes the shit. I mean, one of my 318 Facebook friends "Likes" it, so it's just got to be significant in some way. I mean, I went to elementary school with this chick.

But what's more the shit than GAP is GAP's fans. Rabid and insensible though they may appear, they are clearly the ones in the driver's seat, turning the wheel, pulling the pubes of this major, international conglorporation. And, when international conglorporations run afoul these days, it's not stakeholders or shareholders or CEOs who get upset-- its folks like you and me, and woe betide the company or entity who pisses off its fans, or Fans. We might not Like you anymore. Feel our wrath. Tug, tug!

Ow! That hurts GAP's pubey-pubes!

Well, get used to it, bitches, because the entitled, engorged-though-still-miraculously-able-to-fit-into-your-boot-cut-skinny-jeans generation is all fired up and ready to Un-Fan you.

We get our TV whenever we want it. We get our email virtually streamed into our veins. We can have a Starbucks drink prepared for us inside the supermarket. We've got our phones in sync with our cars which are in sync with our bluetooth which are in sync with our ears which are in sync to our iPods, and, motherfucker, we'll tell you when it's okay to change your logo and when it's not and, while we're on the subject, how DARE you attempt to change it without even TELLING us first?

I mean, really. Haven't you ever heard of the biggest focus-group of them all? It's called Generation-Y, you inconsiderate bastards. And if you try any of that shit again, I'm going to actually rip out a clump of those pubes and mail them to your fucking mother.

N'yah mean? That's right. We have Masters degrees and we're just starting to discover gray hairs on our heads and

WE.

ARE.

PISSED!

Thank you.