by 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 is key to my viewing pleasure, they don't have three zillion channels for nothing. 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 indulgence on my part because I'm really only hanging on to verify my prediction that the old commercial where Mean Joe Green scores some Coke from a kid and tosses him his filthy sweat-soaked jersey will win out. It does of course and I relish in my astute ability to predict cliched predictability. But for my money 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 and 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 yellow moons, orange stars and green clovers in the background. Not sure just what they were selling there.
6S
Harry B. Sanderford, author of Sugar, Them's Ears Not Handles, is a Central Florida surfing cowboy who'd sooner spin yarns than mend fences.