I love the Superbowl. But not because I love the strategy and competition inherent in high-stakes Professional American Football. No, I love the Superbowl for one reason only: the commercials. To me, there is nothing more invigorating than watching opposing capitalist entities compete for the hard-earned incomes of millions of Americans in thirty second bursts of hard-hitting brand messaging. It’s almost like…like football! I love Superbowl commercials so much, that I went to the trouble of writing my own. Here goes.
INT. BATHROOM – DAY
A BABY is sitting on the toilet, reading the wildly popular syndicated humor column, Nailsbails (hint, hint, publishers!!!), and smoking a cigar (babies don’t typically smoke cigars or read syndicated humor columns, which makes this scenario both novel and humorous).
This Nailbails fellow is a hoot!
The baby’s enjoyment of the hilarious humor column is interrupted by an abrupt KNOCK!
The door opens a crack. A PIG pops their head in.
You almost done with that Nailsbails column? I’m bacon you to let me read it.
Two libraries, not alike in dignity, / In fair Middlesex County where we lay our scene. [bops self on head with fist like Curly from The Three Stooges] Ah, that’s better. Sorry. I’ve been drinking this Walgreens La Croix selzer nonstop and for some reason it makes me talk in iambic pentameter. It’s OK though because I get wellness rewards with every purchase. Anyway, what I was trying to say is that Wife and I frequent two libraries, one in our mutual town and one in the town we now live in, and they could not be more opposed in every aspect of their existence. Our hometown library is a shining beacon of the pursuit of knowledge. The floors are spotless, the books and media fastidiously organized, and the librarians practically scream “How May I Help You?” with their cheery dispositions (if they actually screamed they would be insta-fired). And then there’s the other library, or, The Dungeon, as I like to call it. The first thing you will notice walking into The Dungeon is the smell, which can only be described as Flea Market After Downpour. The next thing you will notice is that you are suddenly inside a labyrinth of willy-nilly bookshelves. It’s as if The Dungeon Master has been expecting you for decades, and now that you are in their clutches, you must endure a series of trials to prove you are worthy of that murder mystery Wife’s been wanting to read – the one that takes place in a croissant factory. Oh well. I guess not all libraries are created equal. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to return “Pastrycide” to The Dungeon. Wish me luck.
“My brain freezes are easily startled, but they will be back, and in greater numbers.”
I’m no Donald Trump. In fact, I have the business mind of a ten-year-old. I guess you could say I financially peaked at an early age when I discovered that I could use my allowance to buy Star Wars cards and blue raspberry slush. Of course, that was back when I actually handled money. Nowadays I just wave a magic plastic rectangle at the Ewok-looking convenience store cashier, like some Jedi Mind Trick, and I can get unlimited slush. Of course, I don’t, because I get a brain freeze after two or three sips, but that’s about the extent of my economics acumen. So you can probably understand why I’m confused by the voucher for a free three night stay at a resort hotel, plus eighty dollars cash, Wife and I are being offered by some guy named Chip outside a pizza restaurant in North Conway, New Hampshire. Maybe it’s the hour-long “tour” of the resort that we have to attend the next morning to redeem our voucher that’s confusing me. Maybe it’s the way Chip keeps telling me that I have a babyface. Maybe it’s the fact that hotels don’t make money by giving rooms away and plus too also giving money away. I DON’T KNOW. Whatever it is, my 10-year-old, slush-stained self is telling me to use the force and tell this guy, “These Aren’t the Suckers You’re Looking For.”
You are at a party. Your date is either in the bathroom or imaginary. Somehow, you have been roped into a one-on-one conversation with your host in a remote corner of the front-hall closet.
But instead of facilitating a mutual exchange of ideas or anecdotes, your host is simply verbally relaying every thought that enters their mind, without once pausing to inhale.
Thats right: You have been taken Host-age.
You attempt to silently signal for help by glancing sharply in the direction of other guests. But there are no other guests. They’ve escaped.
You try changing the subject, but your host quickly reroutes their monologue back to “Diners I Have Been To.”
You fake a stroke. They absentmindedly say, “Bless you.”
You fling lit matches at them. They continue rambling as several small fires smolder on their torso.
You recite the entire Saving Private Ryan script, including machine gun sound effects, at the top of your lungs. They’re still talking when you get to the “No animals were harmed during the making of this film” part.
You’ve just about given up when you spot an opening: your self-absorbed host has become temporarily distracted by their reflection in an antique hand mirror.