You guys used to be cool. Your ads were stupid, but they were INTENTIONALLY stupid. No one expected a Grammy-winning song about Performance Fleece. People expected kitsch, and kitsch they got.
I looked forward to getting an ad in the mail featuring a chimpanzee in a t-shirt and khakis. Because, by gosh, you guys SOLD that t-shirt and those khakis and I could buy it if I wanted to. Or two for $15, because that was the kind of nice sale y'all usually had going.
I didn't mind the ads with the puppy, either, because who doesn't like a puppy? Also, you sell dog toys and shirts - which caused a little eye-rolling on my part, because if the good Lord intended for dogs to wear t-shirts, He wouldn't have given them fur. But I digress.
The point, Old Navy, is that your ads used to be okay. They were lame but overall unoffensive. Now? You have crossed the line. Because I draw the line at talking mannequins.
Calling them "SuperModelquins" doesn't make it okay. Giving them names and personalities doesn't make it okay. It makes it worse. It creeps the hell out of me. I don't like to see normally inanimate objects talking. I don't want to see a plastic finger break off when one plastic demon proposes marriage to another. I don't want to see disembodied legs in the back room. I don't want to see a metal pole disappearing into a female mannequin's nether regions under one of your stupid sundresses. I don't want to see a torso twisted at an unnatural angle, or worse, improperly attached. It's just yucky.
Those painted-on smiles, Old Navy? They give me nightmares. They scare me. They creep me out. I don't know what jackass in the idea room decided to use talking dolls as a selling point, but he or she needs to be fired, and then beaten soundly with a hard plastic limb. You know why? NOBODY LIKES TALKING MANNEQUINS. THEY ARE FREAKY.
I mean it. Show me one person who thinks the SuperModelquins are cute and I'll show you a person with deep-seated psychological issues and about half the normal amount of brain cells. There is nothing cute or clever about a talking mannequin. It is disturbing and scary and until you bin the lot of the SuperModelquins, you're not getting me to buy any more $10.50 t-shirts, even if I can get two for fifteen. No, sirs and madams, you've got to offer me THREE for fifteen before I can overlook that level of creepiness. I don't need a three-button-placket polo shirt that badly. I'll buy one at Wal-Mart. Wal-Marts may inevitably smell like pee, but I don't have to worry about anything coming to life and suffocating me while I shop - except maybe a greeter or two.
So you know what, Old Navy? Ditch the dolls and bring back the chimp. Well, not THE chimp since he ripped a lady's face off. Maybe another chimp. Or a pony. Nothing says kitschy like a pony in a polo shirt.