Bob Wire Has a Point (Under His Cowboy Hat)

Cure Your Cold, As Seen On TV

By Bob Wire, 12-31-08

	Hey, do you smell something burning? Like cortex?

Like Smokin’ Joe Frazier rallying for a 14th-round comeback against Muhammad Ali, my cold came roaring back one morning as I awoke. It seemed like someone had turned the gravity up to 11, and my head felt like the cement fairy had come by during the night and poured a gallon of Quikrete™ into my sinuses.  Groaning, I rolled out of bed and shuffled into the bathroom to get some DayQuil. Those glowing orange capsules are powerful stuff. Hell, you saw what happened to Neo in the Matrix, and he only took one.

Alas, the cupboard was bare. We had everything from Aleve to Zyrtec, but nothing that would give me that DayQuil quiver I sorely needed. I brushed my teeth, took a fluorescent-yellow whiz (thanks, vitamin B-complex) and got dressed for the unavoidable: a trip to the drug store.

At Walgreens I strode purposefully through the store toward the back corner where they keep all the cold and flu dope. My hoodie was pulled up, string drawn tight around my face, only my itchy eyes, runny nose and chapped lips exposed. I was in no mood to chat, and hoped I didn’t run into anyone I knew. I rounded a corner to take a shortcut to the back wall, and was stopped dead in my tracks by the sight of a battery-powered dog nail trimmer.

You’ve seen it on TV: the Pedi-Paws. It’s like a Dremel tool you use to grind down your dog’s nails (I’m guessing it has never been successfully used on a cat). The dogs in the commercials must be heavily sedated or tripping on DayQuil, because they sit on couches next to their owners, happily submitting to the grind job as if they were floating on a giant strip of bacon in a sea of pork chops.

Houdini has some nails that would make Howard Hughes envious, because I keep putting off a trip to the groomer. He hates having them clipped, and I hate watching him hate it. So I’ve been intrigued by the Pedi-Paws. I loosened the string on my hood and picked up a Pedi-Paws to scrutinize the box. I noticed right next to it was another product I’d seen on TV—the Hangar Cascader, a device that allows you to hang the uniforms from the entire USC marching band (including their instruments) in an average-sized closet. I took a step back and suddenly realized I was standing in the As Seen On TV aisle.

The shelves were crammed with million-dollar ideas, items that provide ingenious solutions to the tedious tasks of everyday life. I love this stuff, and I want to order everything that I see when the commercials come on. Like the Sham-Wow, a chamois-like towel that holds 21 times its weight in liquid (“We’ll clean up the mess—disposing of the body is up to you!”) Hell, I know a couple of Missoula Club regulars who could hold 21 times their own weight in liquid.

And look! Here was the Snuggie, which used to be a polite term for having your underwear pulled up forcibly between your buttocks until you can taste your colon. This Snuggie is basically a giant fleece poncho that’s designed to be worn while you’re sprawled out on the couch. It’s big enough to also cover your doped-up dog, and your arms stay warm in this wearable blankie while you’re reaching for your next dozen Krispy Kremes.

I pictured myself at home, bundled up in the Snuggie, floating away on waves of DayQuil joy, being spoon-fed mashed potatoes by my loving children as I watched endless M*A*S*H reruns. My reverie was interrupted when I spied the Big City Slider Station. It’s a hamburger press that forms little dinner roll-sized patties. Sliders are so named because they slide down your gullet like a greasy spelunker, enabling you to gobble down entire bagfuls of them. They’re served by White Castle in the Northeast, and by Krystal Burger in the Southeast. I guess out West we like our burgers actual size.

I love how the TV commercials for all this stuff give you the breathless pitch, and make you wonder how in the hell you managed to survive this long without it. And it’s always the same: “How much would you expect to pay for the Split-Ender/Mighty Putty/Wash ‘n Wear Jimmy Protector/Whatever? $100? $200? Through a special arrangement with the Chinese manufacturer who has agreed to only make 30 billion of these items, it can be yours for only $19.95!”

It’s always $19.95, no matter what the product. If it were a 2009 Cadillac Seville, it would be “(only 2400 easy payments of) $19.95!” Sounds like a good deal, right? But wait…

“But wait! That’s not all! If you call in the next ten minutes (because our next commercial is scheduled for 11 minutes from now), we’ll DOUBLE YOUR ORDER for no extra cost! That’s right! You get the original thing, plus all these extra things that hook onto the original thing, plus a whole ‘nother original thing, for no extra charge! Except for shipping and handling.” Which is, you guessed it, $19.95.

As I stood there in Walgreens, transfixed, dribbling an assortment of bodily fluids onto their linoleum, absently fingering the Pedi-Paws, I wondered if I could give myself a leisurely Alka-Selter Cold & Flu enema using an Aqua Globe. Would the Micro Force shaver be able to remove the hair from my tongue? Could I take the Steam Buddy under my blanket and clear the gunk from my sinuses? Would the multi-purpose Zorbees cloth soak up a week’s worth of mucus and drool? I found a shopping cart and filled it up.

Driving home, I blew my nose into the Wow-Sham (“Wow! Where’d that snot go?”), and it occurred to me that I’d forgotten to buy the DayQuil. Damn it. I pulled a U-turn and headed back toward Walgreens.

If those DayQuil people were smart, they’d advertise on TV.

[As his health improves and the holidays recede, Bob will begin churning out more bloggage. Please bookmark NewWest.net/BobWire and click back frequently. End transmission.]

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