Monday, February 07, 2005
Have you ever slammed your finger in a door because it felt good when you stopped?
I watch television occasionally. Usually just movies and sporting events. Invariably my brain is slow cooked like those nasty looking burger stix on rollers at 7-11. The ones that look like poop rolled in corn flour. This pollution of my synapses is caused by the demon named Advertising.
It's time for a message from our sponsors. Fuck, I hate commercials.
Do I want a tempur-pedic mattress or a sleep number bed? Will my decision impact my life? Maybe I should get a mattress that motors into a chair so that I can live on it forever and have that Peapod service deliver my groceries. I'll get a clapper for the lights. I'll hire a nurse to empty my bedpan. I could skip the bedpan idea and get a vacuum instead and poop into the tube. I'll finance it all by inviting cameras into my bedroom to watch me bloat. Reality! I'll watch myself on TV. The series finale will show some mischievous soul pop me with a tent stake. Guts will drip onto the light bulbs and sizzle there while the credits roll.
Whew, the matress commerical is over. Everything is back to normal now and I am a sane man. What's this? Why, it's a commercial inviting me to feed a third world child and teach him that Jesus loves him.
These small brown children have large eyes with flies crawling in them. Nibbling on the salty mucoid material welling up at the tear ducts. I can buy a child for 17 cents a day, the same as a cup of coffee. Wait, where can I get coffee for 17 cents? Did they say sponsor a child or buy a child? My kid will arrive in two weeks? Oh, my kit. Not kid. Enunciate your words, asshole spokesman. I thought I was seeing an honest to christ tsunami sex ring for pedophiles advertising on A&E. It's already bad enough that you're trying to grab me by the heartstrings and tug violently enough to leave me with a gaping chest cavity, but you're also insinuating that these withered little bags of flesh are for sale. It's disturbing and it's ruining my dinner.
Thankfully that one ended. I've never seen bigger shinier eyes in my whole life and I found it creepy. Eyes that said "If you don't send me $5 and a box of crayons I'm going to get plowed into this latrine ditch by a bulldozer tomorrow." So what's the next ad? I really just want to watch the ending of Chocolat so I can go to bed. Is that Frodo on a pirate ship? He sure has gotten taller. Oh, it's Jeff Gordon from Pepsi and the North American Stock Car Asshole Racers. What's with the scimitar?
I don't believe for one second that a racecar driver is a gladiator stabbing pirates on the deck of a boat. Bad metaphor, bad cliche, bad advertisement for the Daytona 500. Here's my ad, and my insight into gearhead culture. They should have the driver stick his finger in the electrical outlet and shudder until he comes in his overalls and then collapses, dead and steaming.
That's not a swagger when those car drivers get out after the victory lap. That's exhaustion. They can barely stand up. You see, they sweat a lot sitting in those bucket seats. Their asscracks get swampy and greasy. With all that vibration, they're probably friction burning the asscrack skin right off. I'll bet they can't shit without a turkey baster full of baby oil. That southern drawl in their voice is actually slurring from prescription painkillers. They probably have to go to the pit stop just to fart.
Baseball season is starting soon. All the ads will be for airplanes, beer, and car insurance and the world might seem normal again. I need to stay away from the idiot box until then. 4:30 PM - Bottle Rocket Fire Alarm
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