Last Saturday night, gripped in the throes of heartburn unique
to a double-digit screwdriver overload, I had an epiphany. I’d love
to admit that this epochal moment occurred during humble worship,
but alas, the porcelain god was the only deity receiving homage
that evening. No, I was staring at my television, like every other
drunk, lonely and bored Billiken. After a thousand infomercials, I
finally succumbed to sweet slumber, but not without a lesson: My
life could be a lot better.
Around 1 a.m., presumably when the nation’s sloshed hit their
emotional peak, the charities begin their rounds on the airwaves.
Imagine, the 80 cents a day that I distribute to Shell station
miscreants after purchasing a pack of smokes could feed an entire
village of fragile, doe-eyed children–or maybe just Sally
Struthers. Perhaps one day I shall inform the gentleman appearing
there every damn weekend with “car trouble” that financing his rice
rocket has been suspended in lieu of the rice bucket, but he
becomes a mite irritable when his tithe remains unpaid.
OK, so I’m too selfish to part with the proverbial phat cash
unless I see a return on my investment. A few clicks on the remote
erased any lingering guilt. Nevermind the Internet, you can
practically buy anything between the hours of 1-6 a.m. right from
your TV.
Sex, sex, sex. Thanks to the prudes in Congress, I never see an
advertisement for sultry vixens waiting to “have a phone party”
during “Will and Grace” re-runs. After dark, decency has left the
building. A hideous skank with a sexy voice is only a phone call
away.
Unfortunately, 900 numbers are mysteriously blocked from
university phone lines. Despite this tragedy, “Girls Gone Wild”
employs a perfectly acceptable 800 number, and hundreds of
America’s sweethearts are ready to get naked for me. Sweet.
Trusty credit card in hand, I nearly finished dialing when karma
intervened. You see, I believe that the number of “Girls Gone Wild”
DVDs in my other film collection exponentially multiplies the odds
of my unborn daughter’s appearance in a future installment. Sorry,
but the resulting heart attack would make for an embarrassing
obituary–even by my standards.
I understood the marketing campaign behind the previous
services, but condom and “marital aid” advertisements baffled me.
If a dude is remotely considering a lusty conversation with a total
stranger, or a DVD revealing his anatomy partner’s anatomy, he’s
obviously lacking a significant other to squelch these temptations.
And squelch they do–there’s a reason “Guys Gone Wild” never stuck.
Those in relationships, however, are most likely engaged in
Saturday-night activities that usually interfere with the viewing
experience. Viewing the television, that is.
OK, so I’m too cheap and too afraid for my immortal soul to pay
for porno. It’s free online, anyway. Seeking commodities more
valuable than ditzy airheads with breast implants and see-thru
stilettos, I continued channel-surfing until I found the
gadgets.
Ronco pimped a treasure trove of kitchen essentials, including
an idiot-proof rotisserie (set it, forget it, baby) and a gamut of
knives ranging from pea-slicers to the mortician’s saw featured at
the conclusion of “Hannibal.” The Juiceman, ancient enough to own a
hand-signed copy of the Bible, promised his viewers that after a
steady intake of craptastic vegetables, they too would be preserved
as a living corpse until the Second Coming. Again, I reached for
the plastic, but I remembered that I can’t cook, and anything with
“The Juiceman” emblazoned in screaming boldface is entirely too
homoerotic for my palate.
At last, I slept–visions of the Sharper Image Air Purifier and
herbal Viagra alternatives dancing through my dreams. With a little
cash, my life could be a lot better, but I really love those
screwdrivers.
