Damien Galeone

I want to write about sharks in honor of shark week. However, I am in the land of the annoyingly PC and fear that I might mix up the hammerhead with the silver tip and end up in sensitivity training. I mull over my predicament as I wait for the start of the next shark week movie, Dinoshark. Finally it dawns on me that while I have seen ten commercials, I have seen no Dinoshark, and then this post happens.

In the last week or so I have learned a lot just by watching daytime television in the United States. In the first place, if there is a hell, and if (when) I go there, I will be forced to watch daytime television with Roseanne Barr for eternity. If daytime talk shows represent the average American, then A. I am never moving back here, and B. this country is totally fucked.

Oh yeah, and there is not one person on television in this country not trying to sell me a car.

The constant flow of car commercials is irritating, like lip sore irritating, and those producing them deserve to burn in whichever level of hell involves Fran Drescher and Dick Vitale. Still, there is something worse…

And that is local car dealers who make their own commercials. I do not have the exaggeratory capabilities necessary to describe the level of insanity it must require for one of these troglodytic cheese brains to tape, view, and OK these commercials. These commercials are so bad and unprofessional that I’d buy a car from Fred Flintstone before one of these jack wagons. And, sadly, this situation is not limited to car dealers, but includes furniture stores, jewelry retailers, and lawyers.

Varieties of this bad commercial include:

These are my kids! Subtext: They will starve if you don’t buy a car from me.

Look at this 3 a.m. hottie. Subtext: The people in our tanning salon aren’t too hot, you’ll totally fit in.

If you are one of these people, read this advice carefully: Pay. An. Actor. You look ridiculous and I don’t want to see your kids or your frumpy neighbor and her neck fat. These people deserve to spend eternity watching other peoples’ local commercials while making small talk with Idi Amin and a drunken Gary Busey.

These commercial makers will not be in hell alone. They will be joined by the producers of unrealistic commercials involving skinny and attractive people. This includes those depicting skinny people eating KFC not at 2 a.m., an attractive group of multicultural people enjoying cell phones near each other, and skinny attractive people on the beach being good-looking and drinking beer.

The owners of Heineken will be in hell for simply having commercials that don’t make any sense. One such commercial followed an Indian man running through a festival in India, yes that India, chasing down a six-pack of Heineken attached to a goat. Eventually, of course, the goat he was chasing scampered under a fence, but fortunately the man was helped over the wall by an elephant covered in Christmas lights so he could recapture his goat and beer.

Um. What?

I didn’t realize that Heineken was the official beer of Southern Indian village festivals. But now I know. And how uncouth, the last time I went to one, I brought Labatts.

And now, if you’ll excuse me, I need a beer and hope that there’s an Indian goat nearby. Plus, I want to watch Dinoshark before my sensitivity training session.

What is your biggest commercial pet peeve?