Some people don't understand the value of commercials. These people believe they should be able to watch their favorite TV shows or sporting teams play without interruption.
But not me. I see the real beauty in commercials. Not only do they provide an often much-needed bathroom break or opportunity to grab the makings of a delicious snack, they also inform viewers of important product information and the most current knickknacks on the market.
To demonstrate the value of commercials, I jotted down a quick list of interesting facts I gathered over the weekend while watching hour upon hour of television.
I learned that Tostitos salsa is made not in a food processor, no, but rather by a dancing woman who herself is also made of tomatoes, onions and garlic. And that the best way to get the upper chest muscles I've always dreamed of is through the Shake Weight—which promises perfect biceps and boobs by doing nothing more than jerking off a dumbbell for six minutes a day.
I am a dream come true for advertisers nationwide. It doesn't matter if it's made for men, blind people or dogs, I will buy anything (really, anything at all) that comes with an ""As Seen On TV"" sticker.
However, if there were an Olympics of commercials, the gold medalists would always, without a doubt, be the products sold on infomercials. Some people might consider those products shit, but not me. No... ""pure gold"" is the descriptor I would use.
Stay up past 3 a.m. any given weeknight on any network TV channel and watch the magic happen before your eyes. I'm not sure what it is about those overzealous, sometimes frightening spokesmen, but no matter what it is that's for sale, I feel like they are speaking to my soul. Reaching out from the depths of my TV, calling, ""Buy this shit. You need it. It needs you."" And I do... Billy, Vince, George... I really do.
In the past two months, I have decided to purchase a Slap Chop (""Fettuccini, linguini, martini, bikini!""), a Perfect Brownie Pan, a Snuggie for my dog Molly—who inconveniently died before it arrived—and a Split Ender. I can guarantee that not one of these products will live up to my expectations, but that's OK. By the time they break, spontaneously start on fire or get stolen by one of my conniving roommates, I'll have moved onto something bigger and better and much more gimmicky.
I can actually trace the moment my commercial/infomercial addiction began to my junior year of high school when my sister came home from college for winter break. It must have been around 2 or 2:30 in the morning and we were at the point of tiredness when everything becomes hilarious, and we were high on life. To make matters worse, my sister had just acquired her first credit card, and it was pretty much jumping out of her wallet, begging to be used.
And then the Jack LaLanne Power Juicer came on. We were done for. That dinosaur was in better shape than both of us, and it was all thanks to juicing! My sister made a comment about always wanting to try juicing, and I made all the necessary promises to get her to purchase one.
By the time the juicer arrived, my sister had already returned to Michigan—an oversight on our part—and everyone knows summer isn't a good season for fruit, so after she settled back home in June our interest waned quickly and didn't take long to die out. I'm pretty sure that juicer is still tucked away in my father's attic somewhere if he hasn't just thrown it out by now... but that isn't the point.
While I would never encourage anyone to ever develop an ""As Seen On TV"" addiction like that of my own, I would encourage everyone to at least indulge themselves in a little quality commercial viewing. You never know what life-changing product might pop onto your TV screen.
Want to be a part of the shopping-addiction intervention Jillian's friends and family are secretly arranging? I wouldn't suggest e-mailing her at jlevy2@wisc.edu because then you would ruin the surprise.
