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There’s something wrong with my wife. Yeah, she’s definitely not normal. I saw her loading the clothes washer and she wasn’t singing. She wasn’t dancing. She wasn’t even smiling. In fact, she seemed downright bored. For some reason, doing the laundry didn’t fulfill a cosmic sense of purpose for her. Come to think of it, there was no lively background music either.
We must be using the wrong brand of detergent.
I should have known from the start that there was a problem with her. She has pores on her face. From watching television, I know for a fact that women aren’t supposed to have pores. I’ve suggested that she come into my workshop and let me power-sand her face, but she’s not being very cooperative. You know, when she promised to “love and obey” me, I thought the emphasis was on the “obey” part. I may have to ask the preacher for my money back.
Well, I should probably stop complaining about my wife. I’m probably sleeping on the couch tonight (if I’m lucky that is; we do have a shed outside).
But I digress. What I wanted to talk about was the commercial insanity dumped on the American public. Television, magazines, radio, junk mail, junk e-mail, internet Pop-ups, phone solicitations.
Every aspect of our lives is infiltrated with commercials.
Even the silver screen is not immune to the casual insertion of a brand name product taking center stage. When Reese’s Pieces were used in the movie ET, sales shot through the extra-terrestrial sky. Of course, Reese’s Pieces are delicious. They’re way better than M&Ms! (Hey Reese’s, I do expect to get paid for this plug!)
Commercials should make you wonder how anyone ever managed to get married before Web-based dating services existed. How could our ancestors have had the courage to smile in public without halogen-bright white teeth you can only get by brushing with plastic laminates?
And seriously, why would any reasonable person buy a car based on price, reliability or comfort? All that matters is that you get to see some leggy woman riding in the passenger seat (just don’t let your wife find out).
We live in the real world and that truly is a shame. When I take a Tylenol for a headache, shouldn’t the pain go away instantly? Shouldn’t the fire from that heartburn I got from eating that burrito be quenched as quickly as I swallow a Tums?
In the real world, things just take too long. I want to live in a world where dusting my furniture takes seconds, where washing dishes is an erotic delight, and where the fragrance from my plug-in air freshener induces neighbors to sing songs about me.
When I get written up in Better Homes and Gardens, I’ll capture the moment by serving them a cup of full-bodied mountain grown Ethiopian mocha java coffee latte made perfectly by simply adding water to an instant mix.
So I’ve decided to stop living in the real world. Real is boring, tedious and people have too many pores. From now on, I’m going to live in the world of advertising, a world where everyone drives fancy cars, no one ever tracks dirt into the house, and kitchens are large enough to park a Hummer in the corner.
Yes, it’s a wonderful life. Thanks to maximum strength tartar protection, my teeth now glow in the dark. My new exer-sole shoes have firmed up my butt and I’m fighting off women with a hockey stick. (Well, my wife is actually.)
I’ve switched car insurance companies 15 times in the past week and saved $400 each time (the insurance companies are now paying me each month!) And I finally got my wife to sing in the laundry room. (Of course, the Prozac I slip into her morning coffee might be a factor.)
The only downside is now that I’m a TV life-form, my wife keeps using the mute button on the remote to shut me up. I really wish she would stop it because it makes me...CLICK.