July 19, 2007
As He Is Forced To Sleep Under The Bed.
The Girlfriend and I were having dinner whilst watching television the other day – two hobbies which we try to do on a daily basis – when she suddenly jumped up and shrieked in delight, the way she usually only does when dashing South African singer Kurt Darren appears on screen.
Half dead from the bottle of Jameson I had just consumed, I managed to stab her thigh with my fork, which she knows is a sign to get the smelling salts, as I am about to pass out.
Determined to see what all the hoopla was about, and hoping that my vision and sense of smell would slowly return once my blood pressure stabilised, I was also secretly excited to see the dapper Mr Darren, as I always admire the chutzpah of a white guy who thinks he can dance.
My vision was quickly restored though but alas, the Afrikaner nation’s answer to Robbie Williams was not on telly, and I was instead greeted by one of those dreadful Glomail infomercials, in which a spandex-clad B-grade actress excitedly extols the virtues of a German-developed exercise machine, telling you how worthless and inadequate your life would be without the groundbreaking equipment being promoted.
Although incredibly fit from all the cooking, cleaning and carrying me from room to room – I could still sense the yearning felt by the Girlfriend, and immediately began searching between the couch pillows for loose change, enough of which would enable me to purchase the product in question and allow me to sleep in the communal bed that night.
Disappointingly, the couch exploration only yielded a paltry R1,75, together with a Josh Groban DVD, three balls of used chewing gum, four unpaid traffic fines as well as my grandfather, who had seemingly managed to escape from the old age home weeks before, and had decided to make his home in the underside of my leather 4-seater ever since.
To cut a long story short, I quickly sent the old man packing (although I certainly didn’t do this).
Regrettably, I couldn’t come up with the dosh for the “Power Maxx” though, despite turning tricks in Sea Point Main Road, and was thus forced to sleep under the communal bed for a while, a cold, dark and unforgiving place full of dust particles and broken dreams and promises. This sad episode reminded me of my resentment toward infomercials, especially the ones promoting self improvement products.
For many years now, I’ve taken an intense disliking to Glomail and Verimark. I remember stealing and robbing countless kids on the playground at catholic primary school, getting enough money together to buy the Energym Crunch, so that I too could have a six pack and pull beautiful soap opera actors like Hunter Tylo and Morgan Fairchild.
Yes, strange as it may sound today – I was a fat kid, and felt I needed the love and gentle touch of Taylor from Bold to make me a better man. Or at least ease the sexual tension which had begun haunting my adolescent years, causing me to spend countless hours in the bathroom “fixing up my hair”.
Alas, I was later to discover all was not as it seemed, as the amazing results shown on the telly would only become apparent if I followed the “eating plan” which consisted of tiny portions of lentils and bits of organic root, whilst jogging the equivalent of the Comrades marathon every second day.
Used to a daily diet of deep fried pork and strips of greasy fat, I understandably found the going hard, and the image of a naked and oiled Hunter Tylo caressing my sweaty feet slowly ebbed away.
With it, so did my love affair toward infomercials, and we have never rekindled things since.
Stop calling me, it’s over. We’re done.
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