These days, I would give anything to see a Budweiser Clydesdale in a TV commercial. A big majestic horse, in a dusky pumpkin patch pulling a huge wagon with happy, wholesome hay-riders carrying home the glowing orange orbs they’ve harvested on their impossibly amazing autumnal outing.
Maybe two Clydesdales. They step through the gauzy fields in synchronized dressage, with their flowing white go-go hooves that do not at all detract from the aesthetic of their workhorse ethic. Sigh.
It would make the evening news — an unending string of hurricanes, earthquakes, fire and fury, Cat10 Rocketboys and nuclear dickheadedness — more bearable. If I knew a nice big Clydesdale was coming up at the break, I wouldn’t worry about Rachel Maddow’s head blowing up at the 20-minute mark.
The Truvago guy doesn’t do it for me. His gray smugness gets to take perfect, cool vacations, but he’s always alone because who could stand him even for a long weekend?
You would think the UnTuckit guy had discovered the cure for cancer. No. He shortened a shirt for guys who can’t/won’t tuck their shirts in over their muffin top or under their beer gut. Did someone say Nobel Prize?
(A word here about Buck Naked from the Duluth Trading Company: Love.)
The Coolsculpting guy could put the UntuckIt guy out of business. He seems pleased with his work to make his body perfect, except for the worrisome wen of fat under his armpit.
Ever heard of lymphoma? Ask your doctor. Wait, what? You’ve got a doctor? And just what is CoolSculpting? Ask your Coolsculptor. It freezes fatty deposits? Then it goes where? How? Did Coolsculpting cause the Fatberg in the London sewer?
And we’re back. To the breaking – make that heartbreaking – news about genocide, refugees, sweltering shelters, Russian investigations and Puerto Rico.
Sure it all makes you sick to your stomach. That’s why there are so many gastro-intestinal distress ads. There’s that anthropomorphic, Pepto-Bismol-pink stomach blob trolling some poor music teacher who is just trying to help her choral students.
There’s that red-headed woman in the white leotard with a diagram of a lower GI tract silkscreened on her onesie. She doxes a woman with Irritable Bowel Syndrome (IBS). The swayback stalker looks like Kathy Griffin before she shaved her head for her sister in chemo.
There’s that contractor who takes opioids for his back pain, gets constipated and bravely tells his doctor. She tells him to let it go. Get it? When white people have trouble with opioids they don’t get jail time, they get laxatives.
At this point you’re probably thinking, “She’s still watching TV on TV? Doesn’t she know she can VCR it, watch and do triple time through commercials?” Of course I know that. What do you think I am? A dotard? I used to tape the Simpsons.
The side effects of national chronic outrage fatigue may vary: personal dysphoria and national dyspepsia. I just miss those Clydesdales.
Kate Clinton is a longtime humorist. She writes regularly for the Blade.