I don’t know about you, but TV commercials rely so heavily on fantasy that it makes me feel like I’m a real loser because I don’t have a super Honda to magically transport me to Maine for a coffee break. Instead I’m stuck home with my soup made from leftovers. Nor do I feel like a Nascar Dad that in purchasing a new SUV I have to test drive it up Mt. Everest--and I'm just too damned old to buy a sports car and find excitement in watching the rpm glare red. I suppose, too, my age controls motivation to have a beer just because a gansta rapper tells me to get drunk and knock up someone.
My heart goes out to a woman who is framed respectably but blasphemed by cellulite. The beauty commercials are for all us Shallow Hals who insist that every one crossing the screen is a ten — oh, and that silky brunette hair that cascades so invitingly down a curvaceous back any male would die to bury his face in it. And just think of all those stupid cell phoners who are still looking up at the clock before they dial because they never got the word that they don’t have to that anymore.
You know, I just can’t rush out of the house to the nearest McDonald’s to become an instant millionaire — I guess I’m not very entrepreneurial. Maybe it’s just me, but somehow I can’t share Gibson’s passion for the Passion. After the verdict, I couldn’t join in the compassionate stampede to K-mart to gather up Martha Stewart products. I really feel sorry for all those satellite dish owners who have to climb up on the roof every time nature has hiccups. I have profound compassion for those with cancer, and personally having lost my wife to the dreaded disease, I’m enraged that it never crossed my mind to give her Bayer that would have saved her life.