Harry B. Sanderford
I was watching the tube recently and when I watch TV I like to watch the hell out of it. The remote control is key to my viewing pleasure. I don't watch commercials as a rule, this is ordinarily my prompt to move along. So, it is mildly ironic when my interest is caught by one of those deals where the whole point of the show is to count down a list of TV's most memorable commercials. It's pompous self-indulgence on my part really; I'm only hanging on to verify my prediction that the old commercial where Mean Joe Green scores some Coke from a kid and then tosses him his filthy sweat-soaked jersey will win out. It does of course and I revel in my astute ability to predict clichéd predictability. For my money though, the best commercial of all time is that one with Mr. Whipple sitting on the crapper noisily grinding out some grundlers and since he has nothing to read, he's left with just his thoughts. The camera moves to the little thought bubble over his head where a gore muzzled Tony the Tiger is plop-plopping Alka Seltzers into a glass of water with the freshly mauled carcass of Captain Crunch visibly oozing entrails dotted with pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers in the background. Not sure just what they were selling there.
I was watching the tube recently and when I watch TV I like to watch the hell out of it. The remote control is key to my viewing pleasure. I don't watch commercials as a rule, this is ordinarily my prompt to move along. So, it is mildly ironic when my interest is caught by one of those deals where the whole point of the show is to count down a list of TV's most memorable commercials. It's pompous self-indulgence on my part really; I'm only hanging on to verify my prediction that the old commercial where Mean Joe Green scores some Coke from a kid and then tosses him his filthy sweat-soaked jersey will win out. It does of course and I revel in my astute ability to predict clichéd predictability. For my money though, the best commercial of all time is that one with Mr. Whipple sitting on the crapper noisily grinding out some grundlers and since he has nothing to read, he's left with just his thoughts. The camera moves to the little thought bubble over his head where a gore muzzled Tony the Tiger is plop-plopping Alka Seltzers into a glass of water with the freshly mauled carcass of Captain Crunch visibly oozing entrails dotted with pink hearts, yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers in the background. Not sure just what they were selling there.
