As seen on TV
My wife Janet is an ardent fan of horror movies. During the month of October, the ever-present howl of our hound dogs is often overwhelmed by screams and the pitter-patter of humming chainsaws emanating from our television.
Janet is generally not a big fan of television. Normally, she is a whirling dervish of activity, a perpetual motion machine who would shame and tire a twelve man chain gang crew. However, once a year Janet allows herself somewhat of a break and launches herself into a world of lycanthropes, vampires and giggling cannibalistic hillbillies.
With an occasional detour to view the World Series and our favorite show (The Office), my son and I will often join Janet, gambling our sleep plans to take part in this festival of gore. Janet is unfazed by the most grizzly of scenes, undaunted by the mayhem created by the sickest minds in show business. Following a few of these productions I laid wide-eyed in my bed, imagining that the bed-side lamp was glaring at me and, somehow, meant me harm.
(Note: As a child, after watching Alfred Hitchcock's "Psycho" alone one night, I hurled a lamp at my bedroom door sensing that I was not alone in the room. As it turned out, I had merely seen myself in the mirror affixed to my door and had attacked my own reflection. This incident also explains the poor run of luck which I have experienced since and why I get a weird chill every time I look in the mirror or wear women's clothes (just kidding, I rarely look in the mirror).
During Janet's demented film jubilee, we were treated to screenings of Saw 1, 2, and 3 back-to-back-to-back. For those of you who have not been exposed to this trilogy, the plot revolves around a madman who kidnaps tortures and executes his victims by the use of "Rube Goldberg" type of devices. If you remember the old board game "Mousetrap" imagine the sequence of traps that needed to be sprung to snare the plastic mouse, then gently replace the mouse with a person who, instead of being trapped by a plastic cage, is disemboweled by a mechanized collection of rusty auto parts.
During the breaks in the film, we would be assaulted by the same collection of "As seen on TV" commercial spots that we had seen during the previous break. Talk about torture, where are those rusty auto parts when you need them? As I contemplated the features, functions and benefits of "Mighty Putty" for the fifth time in the last thirty minutes, I was seized by thought. Why not incorporate these "As seen on TV" products into the film? Some of these things already look like torture devices, why not go the next step in product placement?
Billy Mays, the long-standing leather-lunged spokesperson for most of these products, could play the smiling villain and that cock-eyed, headset wearing carnie appearing on the "Shamwow" spots would do nicely as his fiendish pitchman/henchman. Is it me or does that dude look like Wilhem DeFoe and Annie Lennox's love child? I digress.
This plan would eliminate both the need for commercials and would demonstrate the products in ways that most people might not have ever considered. "Grab-it Screw Extractor" sales would go through the roof! Image how fresh those cannibal hillbillies could keep their guests if they had a set of Chef Tony's "Smart Lids" vacuum lids. And, as they say on the commercial "AND THAT"S NOT ALL!". Hannibal Lechter himself could offer a free recipe book with every "Pancake Puff" and "Slider Station" cooking system if interested consumers acted within the next fifteen minutes. The opportunities are endless!
Like many of my great ideas, I am sure this project is already in development somewhere on Madison Avenue. Just think, if Freddy Kruger had been fortunate enough to have a "Pedipaws Pet Nail Trimmer" to tidy up those claws back in the day, his nightmare might have been a whole other dream entirely. Sadly, we might never know.
If you are interested in hearing more about this revolutionary marketing concept, please send a self-addressed stamped envelope to Box 2991 Radio City Station, New York, New York 10101, or simply return the unread portion of this article for a full refund. Operators are standing by.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
Moving Gas
Like most of you, I am relieved to see gasoline prices return (somewhat) to earth. It is truly disheartening to stand at the pump and witness the pay amount meter whiz by as the gallon gauge strains to reach the one dollar mark. With each spin of the wheel, I feel the contents of my pocket evacuating like a third quarter crowd at a New York Knicks game.
Last night I was watching a rather grisly horror film produced in 1991 in which the lead fiend performs an involuntary surgical procedure on a terrified filling station attendant. As bloodied anatomical parts randomly landed on the dormant petrol pump signange, I gasped, "Unleaded, .118 per gallon?" When was this movie made, 1928?" Unfazed by the condition of the sectionalized grease monkey, I remained shocked and horrified by the bloodstained pricing.
Gas mileage ratings have become a pivotal selling point for most automobiles, a vast departure from the mid-seventies when I started driving. However, there were those visionaries who saw gasoline conservation as an important issue even during that era.
In the summer of 1978, my friend Jeff bought a nearly new Volkswagen Bug for the tidy sum of $2650.00 and proceeded to drive everyone crazy with his daily tales of superior gas mileage. At the time I was driving a 1968 Mercury Cougar which hemorrhaged gas and oil like a crippled Exxon tanker when standing idle in my driveway and Jeff was working on my last nerve. Enlisting the aid of my friend Neil (also planning to strangle Jeff), we devised a way of putting this boast-fest to a quick end.
Our plan was simple. Each night for a week we would sneak over to Jeff's garage and carefully fill his gas tank to the brim by means of a five gallon can and a funnel. Any spilled evidence might give us a way. The next day we would go to Jeff's house and sit wide-eyed as he regaled us reports of 60-80 miles per gallon. Roundtrips to visit his parents in far-off New Jersey required nary a quart of propellant! Jeff had purchased the perfect vehicle.
The next week Neil and I launched Phase Two of our plan removing five gallons from Jeff's tank each night and relocating the fuel in one of our cars the next morning. Suddenly Jeff was quiet, even complaining about his ride. Jeff brought his Bug to several mechanics he knew all of whom saw no discernable problems. Now the "crazy" was on the other foot.
Finally, Phase Three found us completely emptying Jeff's tank and filling it up the next day (we had to make two round trips on that one). We even left our five gallon bucket next to his car with a present from the "Gas Fairy" one night. After almost three weeks, we suspended operations. Both of us had swallowed enough gas to fill-up a Greyhound Bus (while siphoning) and our breath smelled like 87 octane. Attending a cook-out was out of the question. It was time to stop.
We confessed our sins to Jeff and, like any good friend, he cussed us out thoroughly and damned us for coveting thy neighbors fuel. Eventually he forgave us and, as ushers at his wedding, we drained the get-away limo for old time sake (his wife Debbie banned us from their house (and garage) soon after).
For those of you who have a friend or neighbor who is driving a fuel efficient car and enjoys crowing about the economic virtues of his or her vehicle, please refrain from re-enacting our three phase plan. Other than torturing our dear friend for a few weeks (which is always fun), little was gained. However, I can report that I am still able to re-light my own birthday candles every year with a big, strong, gust from the lungs. I wonder if Neil can claim the same?
Like most of you, I am relieved to see gasoline prices return (somewhat) to earth. It is truly disheartening to stand at the pump and witness the pay amount meter whiz by as the gallon gauge strains to reach the one dollar mark. With each spin of the wheel, I feel the contents of my pocket evacuating like a third quarter crowd at a New York Knicks game.
Last night I was watching a rather grisly horror film produced in 1991 in which the lead fiend performs an involuntary surgical procedure on a terrified filling station attendant. As bloodied anatomical parts randomly landed on the dormant petrol pump signange, I gasped, "Unleaded, .118 per gallon?" When was this movie made, 1928?" Unfazed by the condition of the sectionalized grease monkey, I remained shocked and horrified by the bloodstained pricing.
Gas mileage ratings have become a pivotal selling point for most automobiles, a vast departure from the mid-seventies when I started driving. However, there were those visionaries who saw gasoline conservation as an important issue even during that era.
In the summer of 1978, my friend Jeff bought a nearly new Volkswagen Bug for the tidy sum of $2650.00 and proceeded to drive everyone crazy with his daily tales of superior gas mileage. At the time I was driving a 1968 Mercury Cougar which hemorrhaged gas and oil like a crippled Exxon tanker when standing idle in my driveway and Jeff was working on my last nerve. Enlisting the aid of my friend Neil (also planning to strangle Jeff), we devised a way of putting this boast-fest to a quick end.
Our plan was simple. Each night for a week we would sneak over to Jeff's garage and carefully fill his gas tank to the brim by means of a five gallon can and a funnel. Any spilled evidence might give us a way. The next day we would go to Jeff's house and sit wide-eyed as he regaled us reports of 60-80 miles per gallon. Roundtrips to visit his parents in far-off New Jersey required nary a quart of propellant! Jeff had purchased the perfect vehicle.
The next week Neil and I launched Phase Two of our plan removing five gallons from Jeff's tank each night and relocating the fuel in one of our cars the next morning. Suddenly Jeff was quiet, even complaining about his ride. Jeff brought his Bug to several mechanics he knew all of whom saw no discernable problems. Now the "crazy" was on the other foot.
Finally, Phase Three found us completely emptying Jeff's tank and filling it up the next day (we had to make two round trips on that one). We even left our five gallon bucket next to his car with a present from the "Gas Fairy" one night. After almost three weeks, we suspended operations. Both of us had swallowed enough gas to fill-up a Greyhound Bus (while siphoning) and our breath smelled like 87 octane. Attending a cook-out was out of the question. It was time to stop.
We confessed our sins to Jeff and, like any good friend, he cussed us out thoroughly and damned us for coveting thy neighbors fuel. Eventually he forgave us and, as ushers at his wedding, we drained the get-away limo for old time sake (his wife Debbie banned us from their house (and garage) soon after).
For those of you who have a friend or neighbor who is driving a fuel efficient car and enjoys crowing about the economic virtues of his or her vehicle, please refrain from re-enacting our three phase plan. Other than torturing our dear friend for a few weeks (which is always fun), little was gained. However, I can report that I am still able to re-light my own birthday candles every year with a big, strong, gust from the lungs. I wonder if Neil can claim the same?
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