How easily clever ads can become family catch-phrases--even if you aren't that much of a TV fan.
This has become a catch phrase in our house, applied to people who have been out all night partying—-perhaps in scandalous ways. We got it from an ad, one I don’t think was ever shown on this side of the pond.
This featured a long skit, with a divorce trial. A dishy bad girl brunette is on the stand, looking beautiful and shameless, while the prosecution lawyer declaims, pointing: "She was out all night with the Grand Marquis” which elicits a gasp of shock from the packed courtroom.
The camera pans in along the front row, and we see an elderly debauched 18th Century aristocrat, silken legs, heels, wig, make-up and all. Then we get a fast cut to the latest "Grand Marquis"—a smooth, sleek, ultimately De-troit car—with the brunette at the wheel, driving fast, hair blowing. Voice-over is a whispered, passionate recitation of the car’s many fantastic qualities.
We thought this was darn clever. Me particularly, with my 18th Century hang-up.
Oddly, this is an intro to another cat story. As you may know, we’ve acquired another feline friend. (Actually, he has acquired us.) He decided to live here during the winter about two years ago, after searching the neighborhood for an amenable house with attentive kitty feeders/doormen. My husband and I proved to fit his requirements to a T.
As old folks, we’re up and down all night, turning on lights and wandering around at 1 a.m. and at 3, and 4, and 5 o’clock, too. As we are already up, we can certainly open doors if he wants to come in during the night for a brief munchie, a pat, or just to crash on the carpet behind the speaker for a few hours until we next begin to prowl the house.
When he stays out all night, however, and comes in late morning, we think he looks as if he’s REALLY been out with the Grand Marquis—the old, depraved 18th one—at some riotous hell-fire club. His kitty eyes are blurry, and a long ago injury shows up in a limp which he doesn’t display when he’s fresh out of the sack. There’s a perfunctory leg rub, a few face-first slams into the crunchie bowl, and then he’s off to the nearest couch, bed or warm chair to sleep on his back, snore and drool for the next six hours.