Ad-Nausea

It’s a funny society we live in. Say the wrong word, express the wrong thought, deviate from the politically correct program and you could lose a friend or a job or a career. These cultural censors seem to be everywhere. But on television these days, it seems anything goes. Now if a program offends me–and it takes a lot to offend me, I’ll change the channel. I don’t have that option with commercials, because you never know what’s coming. One Sunday morning, the TV was tuned to the Food Network, normally a pretty safe channel to watch while sitting down to breakfast. But what comes on a commercial featuring a bunch of women sitting on a commode, discussing what they do on a commode and how the process is helped along by some probiotic.

Now, I suppose the company that makes the product does need to get the word out. But does it have to be so disgustingly obvious, and on a food show at breakfast time on a Sunday Morning. That’s just one of the culprits which I’ll file under T-M-I TV. There’s the commercial about the literal flow chart—mapping out for all of us…the appropriate tampon to use depending on what time of the month mother nature does what she does to women of a certain age. Isn’t this something they could figure out by privately reading the labels on the various boxes in the personal products aisle of Target or wherever women buy these products. Then there’s the annoying Charmin Bears scratching their bare behinds while advising us to enjoy the go. There’s a special razor for women with stubborn coarse hair in their most private areas and while you’re sitting down to dinner, they’re treating you to a close up of just how well it works. Last night, we were treated to some blonde guy in his boxer briefs suggestively riding a fake horse followed by a bunch of  Plus Size ladies in  bras and panties. Revenge of the non-centerfolds. If commercials aren’t disgusting us, they’re just inane, Like Granny shopping for a man online with her grandson and that handsome dude…Granny swears he’s a 9–almost gets washed away by spilled soda pop…before a paper towel comes to the rescue. Or Eugene Levy knocking on his daughter’s door at 4AM…to tell her how to shop for a car…but settling for French Toast…

If they’re not turning our stomach, they’re insulting our intelligence. I’m not a prude or a censor but enough is enough. Subtle sales and good taste will prevail. That’s the way it’s always been. Until now.

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