PEOPLE ARE SUCKERS!!
In between doing the dishes, hanging up the washing and vacuuming the lounge last night (that’s husband material right there, ladies) to the soothing sounds of The Cure, I had the telly flickering in the background.
It was on mute, mostly because I like watching the Amazing Race, but I can’t stand listening to it. I also like watching that little gnome beat all the bigger people.
It’s what’s on during the Race, though, that’s slightly more disturbing than listening to grown people (albeit Americans) squeal at the prospect of hearing Chopin play piano in Warsaw, only to be told that he’s dead and that they’ll just be enjoying his tunes via an impersonator.
When you’re watching television you tend not to pay attention to the ads that blast your brain cells away. But when you’re playing Super Domesticated Man for an evening, you’ll stop and stare at anything to ease the pain of vacuuming a dusty wooden floor that should have been cleaned five hours earlier by a lacklustre maid.
Adverts, and the devious products they so enthusiastically flog, are probably the best indicator of how the world has ended up where it is right now (in terms of errantly passionate spending, of course. Though you could probably blame most suicide bombings on the bile people have to endure on free-to-air television too).
Future fabulousness
Between 20:00 and 20:30, a time, if the ads are anything to go buy, when only women watch TV, I was implored upon by various vacuous sirens to purchase anti-aging bum wrinkle cream, shampoo that would ensure silky straightness, conditioner that would turn my (admittedly greying) hair a delightful shade of auburn, a collagen re-plumper (I didn’t know my collagen was de-plumping in the first place) and, my favourite for the evening, the Twista Choppa, a device that allows you to chop onions in 12 seconds, as opposed to the more ponderous 30 seconds it can take with a sharpened knife.
I’m almost certain there were many more must-have products on offer past nine, but thankfully by then I was over-houseworked and not conducive to subliminal messages of future fabulousness.
People are suckers. And because of that common trait we’ll buy anything that promises better looks, a firmer butt and less time crushing garlic cloves.
It’s not just in the shops that we’re tempted to buy life’s little unnecessary luxuries. As of last week, I am now the proud owner of a will and yet another post-life policy that ensures my poor 156-year-old grandmother won’t have to pay for my cremation. I have no idea why, but I was assured that it’s all the rage these days – the policy that is, not the cremation.
In any event, at least my sole beneficiary (my brother) can look forward to a rustically dishevelled set of cooking pots when the good Lord finally smotes me down.
I’m not immune to buying bits and pieces of modern living that aren’t entirely required for my survival. But you have to imagine that some limit to how much junk we need in our lives will be reached soon.
I’m not railing against the world’s rampant capitalism (I’d rather have a credit card than pluck potatoes for the greater good in some communist compound, yes I would, I surely would) but where’s the limit?
All you really need…
I’m sure it’s only a matter of months until the next Gillette razor, this time with 32 blades, satellite skin irritation navigation and Aloe-infused strips of calming salve, hits the shelves.
Until then, I guess, I’ll just have to stick my antiquated four-blade system and, prepare to be shocked, regular shaving foam.
Like I’ve said before, all you really need to get by in life is a fine red wine, aromatic coffee and two-ply toilet paper (and maybe a dual suspension mountain bike). But anything else really is superfluous.
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