Duane Scott has begun a blog carnival called Pleasantly Disturbed Thursdays from his blog, appropriately named “Duane Scott.” He says, “write down a bunch of random thoughts you can’t get out of your head, throw them in a post that doesn’t even need to make sense, and link them over here!”
Last Thursday, Duane wrote a memory from his childhood, something I wanted to do, but I can’t. I can’t seem to organize my mind. Really. These days, having a bunch of random thoughts that don’t make sense is a standard state of affairs. At this particular moment, I blame MSB and J.G. Wentworth.
It’s my money and I want it NOW!
Call J.G. Wentworth, 877-CASH-NOW!!!!
I’ve heard one or the other commercial four times in the past hour and I don’t know how many times already today, and I’m sick of ’em! MSB has a death grip on the remote. I can’t change the channel to some more appealing commercials dealing with, for instance, women’s overactive bladders or that disgusting muffin-top blooming over jeans so tight no blood can reach the legs–or even ads from the Ka-Ching! Law Firm (not board certified in any state to practice any kind of law, but hey–we try). Nor can I hit the mute button or simply turn that one-eyed monster over there off.
“It’ll be over in a second,” Hubby says. “Can’t you just put up with it?”
“Why should I have to? ‘Mute’ is right there under the volume button.”
“Yeah, but I like to watch that guy with the nose. You know–the one that doesn’t have a bridge? It goes from his forehead to his cheeks with no bridge, just a couple of cock-eyed wrinkles.”
“Oh, good grief. You don’t need sound to watch him. Just shut him up!”
By the time the commercial is over, a crease the size of the Panama Canal is firmly entrenched between my eyes.
No, wait–the old Vonage commercials. Oh, my stars!!! How I hated that idiotic song!
Or that analgesic–I don’t remember what it’s called–applied directly to the forehead!
Or the woman screaming on the Publishers’ Clearing House commercial.
Or pick any Billy Mays commercial (may he rest in peace) or any of the equivalents out there. Do they really have to shout at us?
Or that NFL Sunday Ticket commercial from Direct TV with the blond who has that awful fake-Texas accent. Couldn’t they have just hired someone with a real Texas accent? Believe me, it would sound just as strange.
I’ve made it a point to never use a product that is introduced in a commercial that makes me nuts. Vengeful, I know, but Madison Avenue will just have to deal with it. Maybe my solitary protest will actually make them come up with something more pleasant. (And maybe the cow really will jump over the moon.)
I used to have my own remote to the TV. He had his, I had mine–but he didn’t know it. Loved it. I could shut that blasted TV up whenever I wanted, and by the time he figured out what was going on, the nerve-jangling commercial was over. Those were the good old days.
Hmm. I sound like a shrew. I’ve gone over the edge from “pleasantly disturbed” to “certifiable.”
Maybe I’ve discovered the actual reason why I’m Crabby.