Usually, in the past, a prerequisite to opening my George Castanza wallet was pinpointing the source to assist in the peeling apart of this cheap imposter leather known as vinyl. An investment that pinch hit well when the chips were down was the use of a crowbar, but lately, I’ve gotten into some sort of trance that defaults to “leading the piggy bank to anorexia.“ As a matter of fact, one afternoon in a department store, I reached for my wallet and already found a hand in it. Surprisingly enough, it was not the I.R.S., nor was it a gas pump scrounging through my paper bills threatening that I pay up or risk broken thumbs and a forfeited license. Sit down, because this is going to come as a shock to you—kinda like when Kathy Lee made an announcement that she was divorcing Frank Gifford—I was being pick pocketed!
Who was this individual taking the manhood away from my billfold? Ironically, it was me under the side effects of the drug called “Influence” that advertisers traffic through their little media ring. They find the tall, dark and handsome types, clothe a subliminal message on their eye-candied bodies and sell them out like prostitutes so that we the driver will be in awe when we cruise by and retain in snapshot quality of the product or service being displayed. Now, thanks to you, the billboard, I have to have a chain on my slobbering, coveting wallet (like a leash on a chiwawa) that loops from my rear to front pockets in order to restrain it from indulging in the wasteful practices you encourage. You ought to be ashamed of yourself in the way you parade your upstanding personality and whisper love sonnets to the dead presidents chillin’ in the back seat of my pants.
Mr. Advertisement, you used to be such a gentleman when you’d stop by my humble abode. Even though the entrance to my bachelor pad is closed to creepos such as yourself, you continue to keep a steady foothold in the door as you constantly disperse your presence through the medium of commercials. I REALLY appreciate how you overstay your welcome as I try to follow my favorite television shows. Sitting down in front of the tube, I actively practice my hunting skills as I maneuver from station, to station in search of a channel that does NOT have one of your 30 second paid endorsements. You TRY to add a little flavah flav to the encroachment of my programs with humor, a catchy jingle or, God forbid, sex appeal, but I turn a deaf ear to your persuasion. Selective hearing is second nature to someone of the male gender like me. I could care less to the fact that the individual supporting the Debbie Downer of the small screen states that they “approve this ad.” We already are well aware of that, you douche bags and bizzos of salesmanship! If you didn’t approve of it, why in the holy name of frick would you air it!? Stop trying a one-two step in your erotic dance moves with your small print and or fast talking disclosure at the end of each promotion. You don’t come across as being attractive when you streak naked across the screen with that action—truth be told, you don’t have the booty for it. Dowsing yourself in cologne or perfume and pitching a tent in a highly read magazine is yet another turn off. Animated, flashy ads on an internet site with exposure to the public, is your turn of the century method to force feeding an already fat Gerber baby. Haven’t we seen enough of your white sorry fanny in baggy sweats?
There is no restraining orders, any rehabilitation centers or shelters to hide from your little hoochie momma marketing strategies. However, there is a “no fly zone” disclosure on the rump of my trousers that will drop kick your attempts like a Chuck Norris to manipulate the disposal of my greenback gravy. Take heed!
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