I remember when Glad ForceFlex trash bags first came out; I booked the first flight available to Africa so that I could go stuff a rhinoceros in one of those magical bags and bring him home with me. I knew the flight attendants would not suspect a thing because there was just no way in hell that his horn could ever break through the bag since Glad had used (and trademarked) The Force in the making of this product. So imagine my surprise when, upon purchasing my first pack of these bags, I discovered that the pussy ass bags (Hefty hefty hefty, my ass) couldn’t hold a fucking Styrofoam cup without screaming for their mommies and ripping to shreds.
I, like any other American, have been known to fall victim to clever marketing schemes from time to time. That’s why HSN and QVC have stayed in business for so long, why it’s still financially beneficial for marketers to spend the money for an infomercial, why TV commercials are so effective, and why Bernie Madoff made a killing in Hollywood (well the fact that most actors are fucking morons had something to do with that last one as well, I suppose).
If I take the time to sit down and watch a thirty minute infomercial, it doesn’t matter if the product is a sack of golden dog shit; I’m buying it and bragging about what a great deal I got on it to all my friends. They lure you in with their understanding voices and their assurance that this product will change your life in a multitude of ways. You can just tell that an infomercial host has truly walked a mile in your shoes (shit, they walked so long and hard, they wore holes in your shoes and must therefore convince you to purchase new ones), that he or she was once just a silly little insomniac like you, staying up unnecessarily late watching infomercials and eating absurd amounts of popcorn and candy (you can’t tell me you don’t watch HSN just for the pure entertainment value sometimes), until he/she found that golden dog shit.
Then, with that dog shit panacea, they were cured; loserdom was a thing of the past. I just love that these hosts and I can always connect on such a deeper level. They are probably all psychics, actually, now that I really think about it, since they know that if they charged me one penny more, their products would suddenly be out of my price range ($19.99 is so much more affordable than $20.00).
I knew that I had found my own personal cure when I first saw an advertisement for Smooth Away. In case you aren’t quite as much of a connoisseur of bullshit products that don’t work as I am, Smooth Away is a no shave hair removal product, and it was a sure fire way to take me out of my loserdom for eternity. Just wait til all my haters see me and my lack of hair, I thought. What the hell will they have to hate on then?? Not a damn thing ‘cause I’ll be hairless as a fucking baby. Who cares if I still have a bad attitude and no college education? Complain about that to my hair…oh that’s right, bitches, I don’t have any!! Yep, this was the fix. I knew that the only reason I hadn’t dated the quarterback in high school or made the cheerleading squad was that I hadn’t been using Smooth Away. The lady in the commercial looked infinitely happier than me; in fact, she’d probably banged the entire football team.
Shit, I figured this product was going to be so great (the commercial said it, so obviously it had to be true) I would probably just go on ahead and use it on my eyebrows and scalp as well for a nice consistent look. Words can hardly describe my shock when, after using my precious $19.99 Smooth Away for the first time, I felt sandpaper scrape all down my legs and, with wide eyes, saw every last motherfucking hair still attached to my red, burning skin. Heartbreak doesn’t even come close to describing my feelings; I felt that cheerleading scholarship slip that much farther from my grasp.
I’ve even caught myself on the verge of buying Cialis before just because the idea of sitting in a bathtub and holding hands with a man in a separate bathtub is such an appealing notion. Especially in the middle of a beautiful countryside; I mean, I know I typically take my baths in the fucking wilderness, don’t you? So turned on by the ad, I had to calmly and rationally recall that I do not possess a penis and am therefore incapable of experiencing erectile dysfunction. Thank goodness I hadn’t fallen in the trap……. But then they agreed to sell me twice as much for the same price!!! I could hardly believe my good fortune. Like they said on the ad, I was special; this offer was meant just for me.
Oh, fuck it, I thought, pressing 1-800 on my phone, I do NOT have to have a penis to purchase this; there’s a reason all those Feminazis started that women’s rights movement deal…..it had nothing to do with voting or some other horseshit; it was so that we women could buy whatever TV products we wanted, no matter our gender. I heard Susan B. Anthony was a huge HSN fan. As I proudly typed in that last digit so that I could get my orgasmic capsules on the way (hot, separate bathtub sex was in my near future!), I suddenly remembered that time I took too much Viagra and had to have my stomach pumped.
I mean, the Viagra wasn’t doing anything, so the only rational solution was to keep taking more. That’s how any sane person would react. After all, I knew anatomy couldn’t be responsible for its lack of success since the guy in the ad had told me how much happier Viagra had made him and his wife had smiled knowingly. Dammit, I thought, shaking my head with a small smile at Cialis’ wittiness, they almost got me again! It sucks when reality sets in and ruins a perfectly good erection.
I remember the time I called Geico to get my free rate quote. When a woman identifying herself as Katherine answered the phone, I politely requested, "I’m sorry, there must have been a misunderstanding; I was actually calling for the gecko, so if you could just transfer me over, that would be great!" As she stuttered around awkwardly about bundling insurance policies, I became a bit more insistent, "Yes, yes, that sounds like a bundle of fucking joy, but if you could just let the gecko know I’m ready for him, that would be lovely, thanks."
Well, Katherine then had the nerve to giggle lightly and say, "I’m sorry, ma’am, I don’t think you understand; the gecko isn’t exactly here..." I began to rant at top volume, "Oh you think this is funny, bitch?! I just heard you roll your eyes at me! You getting a real kick out of spreading your venomous lies?! Well, I’m not amused; in fact, I’m downright angry, and I’m about to tell your supervisor to give you a swift kick right in the balls for me…wait, no, he can’t do that because you don’t fucking have any balls because unlike the gecko, you’re a fucking bitch!!!"
As Kathefuckingliarine gave me nothing but clearly astonished dead air to work with, I caught my breath and opened my mouth to continue the rant when I heard a knock at my door. Oh, thank God, I thought, the gecko must have overheard Katherine eavesdropping and commentating on the phone call intended for him. I immediately pressed the End Call button, smoothed my hair down, checked the mirror to make sure I looked doable (I remember those ads where the old lady bitched out the gecko for not calling after all those long nights they spent together, so I wanted to make a good impression so that he would call me back after the fact), and answered the door with a huge grin.
My grin quickly faded to a glare as I took in the view of the middle-aged, balding man standing before me holding a large wooden crate. The enormous "Fragile" printed across the box made it clear that this was an Italian product. Fuck. The gecko is British. Also, the gecko is as civilized as you or I; I seriously doubted some sort of barbaric crate was necessary for his transport, so I knew that this had to be another of Katherine’s tricks (sending a caveman rather than the gecko, perhaps?…not fucking funny).
"Who are you? Who sent you?" I shouted accusatorily at the man. He jumped, obviously flustered from my unanticipated irate tone, and replied, "Geez, lady, I’m just making a delivery; FedEx sent me." I squinted my eyes at the man suspiciously. Fuck, if I keep doing that, I’ll have to buy that new non-surgical eye lift product I just saw during the commercial break, and eighty-five payments of $14.95 isn’t really in my budget right now, I realized. I stopped squinting immediately and reached over to sign for the crate with all the eagerness of a death row inmate. If this wasn’t the gecko (and I’d already established that it wasn’t since this was a crate not a limousine and the man a forty year old virgin not a chauffeur), then I didn’t fucking want it.
I opened the door fully so that he could promptly place the delivery inside my apartment and leave. "Um, is there anywhere in particular I should put this?" he asked, glancing around while attempting to tread lightly across the floor that was cluttered with all the ingenious products I had recently purchased. The Techno Puppy 6.0 wagged its metallic tail, remarkably sensing my presence, and then a loud crunch and an, "Ouch! Furby hurt!" cracked the silence.
I shifted three Ahhhh Bra boxes out of the way to get a better look at this bold, bold man (they shaved two bucks off the price of my Ahhhh Bra if I agreed to purchase every single color of the rainbow and send the company a pint of blood every month; it was an offer only a fool could refuse!) and shouted with pure rage, "Are you accusing me of being a hoarder?!?!?!? Get the fuck out of my house! NOW!"
"Okay, okay, I’ll go!" he replied, now openly alarmed by my outbursts. He left the crate right there in the middle of the room among all the As Seen On TV boxes and vacated the premises before I could reach for my commemorative model grenade (The sixteenth anniversary of the Three Little Pigs’ death was a valid excuse to purchase a semi-plastic, semi-cardboard grenade, I had rationalized; after all, it came with a Certificate of Authenticity signed by the Big Bad Wolf’s grandson himself who confessed that his grandfather had actually used a grenade rather than his breath to destroy those little fuckers’ piece of shit houses….a fascinating story all outlined in the accompanying brochure).
As I used one of my crow bars to open the crate (I had a collection of pink crow bars in varying sizes; 0.3% of the proceeds would go to breast cancer research, so naturally I purchased six sets to be delivered over the course of 563 months to prove that I’m not only a brilliant shopper but also a humanitarian), I spied lots of packing peanuts and became very anxious to see what was in the crate. Two antlers popped out suddenly, and I jumped backward, in disbelief that some sort of creature was in this box. Then, as I hesitantly moved more packing peanuts (a gift within a gift, if you ask me) out of the way, I realized this (drum roll, please) was the Tony Little Gazelle!!!!
This incredible piece of equipment was going to have me looking like a supermodel in just two weeks, as Tony had assured me through his powerful, moving infomercial that I had watched perhaps a couple hundred times. The pony tail, tight ass cheeks combination kept me glued to the TV for hours at a time. I would be looking like a celebrity just in time for court. For some inexplicable reason somebody had subpoenaed me to court; it had something to do with repossessing my car, house, and artificial heart (it had only cost $39.99 plus a small installation fee on QVC’s Daily Special!!) I think………I had tried to explain over the phone that there is absolutely nothing wrong with opening 244 credit cards over a six month time span, but they just wouldn’t listen.
However, before I could get my work out on, I had some business to attend to. I dialed Geico’s number once again, preparing to ask the gecko to serve as my character witness in court (the Easter Bunny and Santa Claus had both written replies announcing that most regrettably, they would be unable to attend my court date since they were both on seasonal vacations, so I was in desperate need of a reputable witness). As the phone stopped dialing out, I waited with bated breath and was then greeted with, "Thank you for calling Geico; this is Katherine, how may I help you?" "Motherfucking KATH son of a bitch asshole ER piece of shit INE," I swore with all the enthusiasm and believability of the most severe Tourette’s patient, "I’m fucking sick of false advertising!!!!!!!!!!!"
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