Tuesday, March 3, 2015

     I hate commercials. I know you’re not supposed to hate, but I hate commercials. My enlightened friends always say in their poorly-hidden condescending tones, “We don’t watch anything live. We record everything.” Like why am I so stupid that I would even consider watching something live. Well, guess what? Fast-forwarding every time some feckless feline tries to sell me a new gluten-free cat chow is not my idea of staying engaged in the plot line.

     The commercials I most detest are the ones at dinner when I am trying to enjoy a home-cooked meal. Why would I want to hear about intestinal discomfort and bowel blockage when I am trying to chew my bok choy? Why do I want to watch some woman’s pipes leak because she didn’t get Botox in her buttocks? Why do I care about what kind of underwear “real men” wear to avoid the “stink?” Are you effen kidding me?
We have lost all sense of decorum. If the people writing this crap are over 50, they should be in an asylum. 

     Are these writers the same ones who grace us with bloody zombies, talking robots and end-of-the-world sagas? Spare me. When my daughter asked me what I wanted for my birthday, I said, “to go back to the fifties.” We used to love the commercials then. We knew the jingles and sang them in the shower. I still remember “Maxwell House:  Good to the last drop,” “Puffed Wheat shot from guns,” “J-E-L-L-O.” 

     One of the joys of watching Downton Abbey besides Maggie Smith is that I can sit for one solid hour and not have to fast-forward or watch a 40-year-old complain of E.D. 
Bad news, however, is that I have to carry the TV to the loo.