I bought a new TV recently. Sixty-five inch flat screen with a gazillion pixels. Big mistake. After sales tax, installation fee, service contract and extended warranty, I could have sent a kid to college. But I was already committed so I just buckled up, cashed in my life insurance, and spiraled into the twenty-first century. Besides they calmed my fears with a bunch of rewards points that I can use any time within the next five minutes. I just hope they can be used it for food.
Turns out, it’s more than I bargained for. Not that I don’t immensely enjoy Aaron Judge’s smile in real-life proportion as he rounds third after belting one out. Or the experience of almost being there with some down-home crazies in the Ouachita River canoodling for monster catfish. Unfortunately I’m a devout insomniac. My nights are spent reposed in a chair praying before this behemoth plasma altar for relief from all the perceived problems taking up my brain. But the endless infomercials are killing me. Who in their right mind can handle their every minute flaw on parade? It’s just not right. I’m calling for an infomercial moratorium; or at least term limits.
Look; I’m an old guy. I have wrinkles. I’m supposed to have wrinkles. That’s what old guys have. But to see them so bandied about in high def resolution is devastating. Thank goodness I can erase them with a $195 value cream that, if I act today, only costs me $39.95. Order immediately (which is obviously sooner than today), and it’s only $29.95. If I act even faster (at which point I might be entering a time warp), I can get free shipping within the first 300 callers. This ad has been running for weeks now and they still haven’t reached 300 callers? Can’t be that good. Think I’ll pass and continue my transformation into a Sharpie.
Besides, now I have bigger problems. The parts of my anatomy that don’t require ironing are surrounded by an epidermal layer of crepe-paper like flesh. It’s called crepey-skin. Apparently I can now be harvested for the backdrop of a kindergarten bulletin board. But lucky me – there’s Crepe-away! A sure-fire crepe erase body repair kit that contains every essential oil in our galaxy. Sure I want to repair the dreaded crepe on my arms, legs, and decollete. (Of course I had no idea where to look for my decollete but a quick Google search showed that, although I’m a fan, I don’t actually have one of my own.) Still I’m a skeptical kind of guy. Word on the street is I can accomplish the same thing with tomatoes and cucumbers or avocados. So why spend all that extra dough on fancy creams when I can fix myself up at the salad bar?
How ‘bout “turkey neck”? Never in my wildest dreams did I think I’d be embellished with a wattle. I’m just fortunate enough to live in an age of enlightenment where there are actually turkey neck reducing pills. For only $39.99. It’s recommended that they be used in conjunction with a chin-up applicator and V-line serum. Maybe these are real things; maybe they’re not. All I know is they cost “only” $96.93. It’s worth it. I want youthful radiant skin, not a flappy sail of flesh that, if a strong gust of wind catches it, might send me airborne.
If my self-esteem was at the bottom of the barrel before, I would now have to physically pick the barrel up and look beneath it for any modicum of self-worth. You see not only am I balding but I’m losing fifty to a hundred hairs a day. At this rate even my nose will be barren by Easter. As to be expected, there is a solution. I can join a club. A Hair Club! I’m not sure when it meets but it costs nothing for a free analysis by a team of experts. Yet I wonder: where will I seat them all and should I get a crumb cake?
Once I fix these unacceptable traits, I’ll have to maintain my new-found beauty. Not to worry. Conservatively speaking, eighteen hours a day should be more than enough to apply the necessary colognes, neck armour mask, plasma fusion, prohibiter cream, and enzyme resurfacing shroud. And today for the first time ever, a travel size of I-have-no-idea-what absolutely free. Do I need all these products? Can I afford them? Should I sell my TV?
The real clincher came when I learned I need to spice up my sex life. I kind of thought my resources were compromised; but with such earth-shattering consequences? I never! What can I do? Take another pill? You bet! A miracle pill. A pill with dopamine, with HGH, with icariin extract. I’m starting to feel friskier just saying these things. Besides the obvious benefits of male enhancement, I’ll have an improved mood, boosted confidence, and increased physical energy. I’ll have blood flow like you wouldn’t believe. I can see people now lining up around me for blocks begging for a transfusion. I should jump in. I can do this. I still have a 401K I can burn. My only concern is, with all the other problems I have, once I segue into my new role as a stallion – who would want me?