It's Sunday: Are you ready for some intimidation?
Dave Barry
Let's say you're a middle-aged guy. It's a Sunday afternoon, and
you're planning to relax by watching a little football, defined
as "11 consecutive hours of football."
You settle on the sofa and turn on the pregame show, and the first
thing you see is a commercial for a pickup truck. This is followed by
another commercial for a pickup truck, and then, for a change of
pace, several more commercials for pickup trucks. Then there's about
45 seconds of men talking about football, followed by still more
commercials for pickup trucks.
At this point, you start to wonder if you're the only guy in America
who doesn't drive a pickup truck. You drive a Toyota Camry, because
in your line of work � accountant � the largest payload you haul is
Chinese food.
But you are envious of the men in the truck commercials � manly,
bulging men, with manly, bulging vehicles; men who handle large
tools; men who do not mind getting sweaty and dirty. In the morning,
when white-collar Camry drivers like you are applying underarm
deodorant, these men are deliberately perspiring and smearing dirt on
their bodies, preparing to go work on the rig.
That's where the men in truck commercials always work: on a rig. You
have never, in your accounting career, been involved with a rig.
You're not sure what a "rig" is. But now you wish you had one. You
have rig envy.
Of course you could not get to the rig in your Camry, because you
have to drive over boulders. That's how your TV-commercial-truck-
drivin' guy always gets to his rig: He drives over the largest
boulders. If he can't find any boulders, he simulates them by banging
his head violently against the roof of his cab. That's how manly he
is.
And he needs to be manly, for there is trouble at the rig. There is
always trouble at the rig, in TV-Truck-Commercial-Land, and it always
requires the truck-drivin' man to save the day by hitchin' his truck,
with a heavy chain, to some massive object � a tree, a building, a
tectonic plate, Sen. Edward M. Kennedy � and towin' it up a boulder-
strewn mountain. Then, it's quittin' time, as indicated by the sound
of Bob Seger shrieking "Like a rock! Oooooooowww, like a rock!" with
the intense, sincere passion of a man who has a rabid shrew in his
undershorts.
By the 15th pickup-truck commercial, you are no longer able to focus
on the pregame show, because you're feeling deeply insecure about the
size of your Camry. You wonder if you could trade it in for a pickup.
Of course, you'd have to convince your wife that there were practical
benefits. ("Look, honey! It has a 1,700-pound payload! I could carry
250 gallons of wonton soup!") But your wife would never see the need
for a truck. She is � face it � a woman.
And just then, when you're starting to get really depressed, they
finally stop showing truck commercials. You heave a sigh of relief,
only to realize they are now showing Viagra commercials. Dozens of
them, interspersed with Levitra commercials. They're all basically
the same: A man � a rugged man, far more manly than you � openly
acknowledges that he had problems with his rig. But then he took a
pill, and, ZING, he can perform again! He can play professional
baseball! He can (winkwink) throw a football through a tire!
You try to ignore these commercials. You tell yourself you don't
need this product. But then you remember all those nights when, after
a long day, you went into the bedroom, and your wife wanted you to �
in fact, practically begged you to � throw the football through the
tire. But you were "too tired."
So now, on the sofa, you are a husk of your former self, a man with
a tiny shriveled Camry, wondering if you should ask your doctor about
Viagra. But that would mean going to the doctor's office, which, in
your imagination, has a giant neon sign outside that says "VIAGRA
DOCTOR, PROVIDING VIAGRA FOR GUYS WHO NEED VIAGRA." Also in your
imagination there are pickup-drivin' guys outside the doctor's
office, workin' on some kind of rig. As you drive up in your Camry,
they give you noogies through your moonroof.
This is what you're picturing as you lie on your sofa, curled into
the fetal position, when finally, mercifully, the pregame show comes
to an end, and the actual game is about to start.
Are you ready for some football?
No.
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