The Infomercial Minions Are After Your Children

With our world’s seemingly endless proliferation of problems, including global warming, civil wars and down-turned economies, it was no surprise that hitting close to home this morning was one of America’s most serious, yet under-reported, societal ills: the attempts by today’s protégés of Billy Mays, one of the late, great peddlers of over-hyped “available only on television yet in a couple of months will be available in a local mass merchandiser next to dozens of other only available on TV products”, to warp the minds of our impressionable young children. This morning, my son, T, became the latest of a long list of mind control victims that fell under the spell of one of these car salesmen on steroids. I was taking my shower this morning and preparing for the day when T came rushing into the bathroom from the living room, where he had been watching a television program, saying “Dad, dad!” with an urgent, yet excited tone in his voice. I asked what was going on, not quite sure whether to expect an emergency or a joyous declaration, and saw through the glass the jubilant face of a six year old child, telling me how I needed to call “1-800-6922”. I asked T why I needed to call that number. He then proceeded to give me the highlights of a commercial which he had just seen, “If you call right now, you can get a telescope, three sets of binoculars and a binocular case for only $19.99.” As I was wondering how this offer, which I had dubbed the Voyeur’s Dream Kit, could appeal to anything beyond a very small niche target audience, T immediately asked if I could call and order it. I told T that he was missing some numbers from the telephone number, and that there should have been a series of three numbers after the 1-800. T cordially responded “OK”, and I thought that was the end of the that, however a few minutes later I walked into the living room and observed T to be in a hypnotic unblinking state staring at the television with a paper and pen in his hand. T explained to me in a stoic tone that he was waiting for the commercial to come back on so that he could write down the rest of the telephone number. I tried not to make a big deal out of his little search, and scooted back to the bathroom to finish getting ready. A few minutes later, T bellowed out for me to hurry back to the living room so that I could see the commercial presently on the television. I walked into the front room to bear witness to some older, scruffy looking gentleman with half combed hair, and donning a cheap suit, telling me how I could call right now to get his free program on how to change my child’s terrible behavior. Can anyone say questionable credibility? As I was trying to block out the less than convincing mind control monologue from Charles Manson’s brother filling my ears, T was telling me how he thought the next commercial would be for the binoculars because this commercial was just like that one because it had a 1-800 number. I felt such pity for T because he was mistakenly convinced that “his” commercial would be the next one to be shown, and then felt my heart drop even further as he said, with a mixed look of angst and frustration on his face, several times over the next few minutes, “I just have to remember that number, but my mind doesn’t work anymore.” I retired to my bathroom for a few more minutes to finish shaving and getting dressed, and as soon as I returned to the living room, T told me to not wash his leg off. I had no idea what he was talking about, and asked why not. T slowly lifted up the leg of his pajamas, and I witnessed an indiscernible text scrawled on the length of his leg from his knee to his ankle in red ink. When I asked him to explain his cryptic message, he responded, “It says my name is T, and my mind does not work anymore.” Well, to you Ron Popeil, the Godfather of Infomercials, and the hundreds of snake oil salesmen spawned from your likeness, I send a sarcastic thank you for causing my child's low self-esteem over the ability of his mind, his Obsessive Compulsive Disorder surrounding the need to discover the remaining digits of that elusive phone number and his slow decent into madness as evidenced by his self-mutilation through the use of a writing instrument. And to all you wondering about the never-ending quest to find out the telephone number, we never did see that dumb commercial again throughout the remainder of our day of television viewing. Thank goodness…I never had any intent on buying that stuff anyway!