Actually, boyfriend, I've always thought Pizza Hut's argument was groundless. Not only does Papa John's use of the slogan "Better ingredients. Better pizza," avoid stating directly that its product is better than Pizza Hut's, but it's also a fairly straightforward example of "fluffing" (not to be confused with the other variety of fluffing). Fluffing is a commonplace, quite legal advertising practice, in which it's assumed that potential customers will understand you're bragging about your product. If I'm running a feline sterilization clinic, I can put out an ad that says "We're the best cat castrators in town!" and no one will really believe that there's quantitative or qualitative evidence to back up the claim.
Of course, the ads in which Pizza Hut is mentioned specifically...well, they're a little trickier. Still, the case is weak.
I can't believe I'm chatting about advertising and pizza franchises this early in the day.
In other news, Millsaps graduates might be interested to know that Lance Goss passed away last week. For the majority of you, the name won't ring the dimmest of bells, but for those of us who endured four (or more) long years in Jackson, Mississippi, Lance was a fixture of note. Lance had been at Millsaps since before my father was there. He ruled the theatre department with an iron fist and a pack of Carltons. He was also a quasi-closeted homosexual.
Lance cast me in my first play at Millsaps, Dark of the Moon, which was essentially the beginning of the end of my acting days. It was a dreadful experience, a dreadful play, a dreadful costume (Lance personally slit my hillbilly pants up to a height that would have made Barbi Benton blush). I barely saw him for the next two years.
I can't say I particularly liked the man. He had a fairly serene exterior, but underneath, there was a heap of bitterness. When I refused to wear the aforementioned costume--something that apparently no one had ever had the gall to do--he went into a snit and put me in long pants and didn't speak to me much for the run of the show. And when another prof in the department had the audacity to ask if he could direct Ibsen's Ghosts (Lance directed everything, even in the summer), the Lord thy Goss crumpled into a twisted ball of cane-wielding venom. Still, many people adored him, and for them, I'm sorry for the loss.
Goodbye, Lance. Maybe Broadway will make you a happier man in your next life.
