By this time of year, we are all pretty much over Christmas commercials and how everything from cars to carpet can make your holidays merry and bright. But we can’t discuss commercials, holiday or otherwise, without a mention of the passing of Dick Wilson. Who is Dick Wilson you ask? Perhaps you will remember when I say that Mr. Wilson is doubtlessly squeezing the Charmin in the sky.
Yes, Dick Wilson was old Mr. Whipple, the cranky (and, I suspect, perverted) grocer who scolded women (why was it always women?) for squeezing the Charmin, only to scuttle off and squeeze it himself when he thought no one was looking. Well, zillions of viewers were watching, Mr. Whipple, and that 20-year ad campaign featured some of the most dreadful tripe to ever hit the airwaves.
Charmin caringly ran a nice tribute to Mr. Whipple upon his passing, temporarily abandoning their Charmin Bears (apparently bears really do poop in the woods). As well they should (Charmin, that is, not the bears): Mr. Whipple/Wilson sold a ton of toilet tissue in his day. But if you ask me, Mr. Whipple paled in comparison to crusty Clara Peller, the spitfire octogenarian in lace collar and pearls who honked, “Where’s the beef?” in Wendy’s commercials during the mid 1980s.
The Wendy’s premise was simple; Ms. Peller and two of her less-critical “girlfriends” were at the counter of an “anonymous” hamburger joint. They were curiously inspecting their order: a bun as large and fluffy as the proverbial round bed in a Vegas honeymoon suite. There, sitting hopelessly lost inside the middle of the mega bun, was an itty-bitty burger. The ad was an instant classic. But Ms. Peller, who possibly won an Oscar for being the newest celebrity with the least time to live, was fired by Wendy’s because she appeared in a spaghetti sauce commercial spoofing the Wendy’s ad. Wow; bad move, dude: “Where’s the beef?” became the biggest catch phrase of the decade.
These days, commercials seem to fall into a couple of camps: really inventive and amusing or downright dumb. Give me a good commercial and it instantly elevates my mood. (Sorry; I don’t get out much.) I, for one, am a big fan of the California cows. Those girls are not just “happy cows,” they are downright awesome. I’d like to hang out with them, take them home to meet the family. Not to mention they make me want to buy their cheese because, coming from these cool gals, it must be top-notch. That’s what a commercial should accomplish in my opinion.
The second group, dumb and insufferable commercials, has a couple of sub-sections. First, there are the too-cool-for-school commercials such as the smooth-toned announcer purring about luxury cars in ads so obnoxious that I instantly want to rush out and buy a few Chevys just to shut him up.
Or how about the investment company ads that are in love with the cock-eyed camera routine? What is up with that? Here’s a well-known actor, who should by this time know his way around a camera for heaven’s sake, blabbering away into the wrong camera with a few goofy angles thrown in for good measure. Yeah, I know, it’s artsy, it gets your attention. But the way I see it, if this outfit can’t even maneuver a camera properly, I’m sure as heck not going to trust them with my money.
Then there are commercials so ultra hip that they apparently cater to a crowd of which I’m pretty certain I’ll never be a part. These are the ads that when they conclude you say to yourself, “What the heck was that? Are they selling something?” I saw a commercial the other night, for example, for what was seemingly an entity of some sort; its name consisted of three uppercase initials. The commercial concluded by telling us that whatever “it” is, “it” is everywhere and “it” is right beside you. OK, I give up. What, exactly, might “it” be? Dust?
I would like to recommend to businesses that, unless you’re IBM (which had the good sense to start life as International Business Machines), you stick to naming your stuff something that we’ll actually recognize for what it is. Take a clue from Toys ‘R Us that has approximately 67 gazillion stores and is in the planning phase to expand to other planets. Simple and precise is the way to go. If you’re opening a shoe store, please don’t name it “Frog Phlegm” (or the trendier version, “Phrog Phlegm).
And don’t get me started on ads for those over-the-counter remedies. I’m especially over “Extra-strength” anything. Why would anybody buy regular-strength when right there next to it are oodles of “Extra-strength” versions? Do you go to the drug store and say, “Hmmm … a little diarrhea isn’t such a bad thing; I’ll just buy the less-effective formula”?
Finally, I’m probably not going out on much of a limb when I say that everybody hates those prescription drug commercials – particularly the ones compelled to have complete strangers blather on about what’s going on with your various private body parts and systems; icky stuff a person with an ounce of manners would never dream of bandying about in polite company. And don’t you know your doctor loves to see you come for a visit armed with your own diagnosis? “Hey, Doc, how about prescribing some “Mold-Be-Gone” for this toenail fungus and while you’re at it, my bone density seems a little off and I’ve finally figured out what that prickly sensation is on my … ”
Oh, please! Can you stop already with the medical stuff on TV? I mean we’re trying to eat breakfast here, people! And take those dire warnings with you. Frankly, I’d rather live with a little joint pain than risk some of those bothersome side effects such as death. Whew – I’m glad I got that off my chest; now you go out and have a great day. But be sure to check with your doctor first.
