Ad Me

In which I describe myself as advertisers see me

I am a dumb, stupid, idiot, loser, baby man. I can't make any decisions for myself. I have no self-respect or pride. I am horribly childishly. I am ashamed at my physical deficiencies and non-conforming appearance. I fail even the most basic tasks of communication.

I shimmy my shoulders while I eat yogurt. My eyes go wide with pleasure. Ooooh baby! Only ninety calories!

I have a rash on my elbow that I find humiliating.

I have a rash on my neck — the shame!

I have a discoloration on my shin.

My thigh skin bunches oddly.

My hair isn’t shiny enough. Or maybe it’s too shiny? Or the wrong color?

I need creams. Creams and ointments, and salves, and goos, for the rashes on my neck and elbow, the discolorations, the odd bunches, the wrong colors.

I have a kid that I spend all night caring for. I need coffee. And I need three different coffee makers. Now that I have used the coffee from the coffee makers to care for my child, my wife is horny. She winks suggestively and we go to the bedroom.

I need a better job.

My child looks up at me in concern. Her look asks, Are you okay, Daddy? But then she sees my phone screen — I’m using the right job finding site. Her little shoulders relax. She breathes a childish sigh of relief.

I take selfies of myself eating cottage cheese.

I laugh like a maniac when I pour sour cream into my soup. I have tasted the forbidden knowledge — I understand that sour cream goes on tacos and into sauces and cake batters — hell, you can dip your strawberries in it, and oh, god, the pleasure of that sour cream, expressed beatifically on my beaming face.

I love getting my hair cut, and whenever I go, I offer to pay for everyone in the salon. I thrash my head and pretend to play a guitar, and then I hold up my credit card so everyone can see I have chosen the smart and successful person credit card.

I need an 8,000 ton towing capacity. I drive my truck through the woods all the time. Sometimes, I drive it up mountains or dunes or ford rivers in it. I usually park my truck on the edge of a cliff, next to two other vehicles from the same manufacturer.

I listen to zen meditations on the screeching subway. I swing my hips and adopt a look of superiority as I exit, smug in my happy place.

I teach myself to dance in the scarce minutes that I'm not working or performing the work of childcare. Thus, with the power of these subscription courses, I can pretend to have some kind of artistic endeavor as the jaws of my frenetic schedule clamp down into the tender flesh of my well-being, any joy oozing out like spittle and blood.

I love celebrities! They're like the friends I don't have in real life. Or maybe they're my mom and dad? Or maybe my spiritual leaders? Whatever they are, they’re the closest thing I have to a role model.

If they like something, I like it too.

And they like all kinds of things — smartphone gambling, short-term car rentals, banks, and insurance products.

Oh the insurance products!

I could be saving so much money every year! On my car, my house, my boat, my shed, my storage facility for my boat and car.

Oh yeah, and my motorcycle.

Thank god for celebrities and cartoons! Finally, I know the right amount of insurance to buy for my risk tolerance.

Every day I drink a big glass of infant nutrition fluid extruded from the teat of a bovine. I give the bovine infant nutrition fluid to my kids. They’re growing. They need the bovine infant nutrition fluid. They’re so so happy to drink the bovine infant nutrition fluid. The fluid stains their lips and bubbles in the corners of their mouths. They grin. I have done well for my brood.

I put on my headphones and I play that song. You know the one! It’s the one that’s playing everywhere, all the time. One of the agreed upon songs! I breakdance through the street and run straight up a wall. I’m cool! But more than that, I’m rich, because I have the good headphones from the rich people company. I’m better than those losers with the bad headphones from the poor people company!

Ugh, sleeping is so hard! I’m tossing and turning all night. But there’s a mattress that I can move up and down and change the temperature that will give me an incredible sleep. I love this mattress. Oh yeah, I’m going to snuggle into it, abrade my skin against its cool fabric, yeeeeees. Because my country celebrates having presidents, I can get this mattress on sale.

Oh no! I don’t know how well I slept. I need a graph and some numbers to understand if I’m ready to do something or not. Oh thank God! There’s a device I can wear that will show me some numbers. Yes, yes! Track me. Reveal the secret rhythms of my body. Follow me everywhere! Tell me that my heart beats, my lungs pump, track and record. Record that I live so that I may relish in the data and know that I am alive.

I have low testosterone. My life is sad and gray. I’m ashamed. Phallic objects fall limp as I pass. But there’s hope — a treatment. Even a luckless, pissant loser like me can raise his testosterone. Finally, I will have appropriate testosterone levels. Color returns to the world. The phallic objects around me snap strong and hard!

I am weak and I am flabby.

My body has reserved lipid tissue in case of famine.

My reserved lipid tissue isn’t attractive to women, the people I am supposed to be attracted too. Oh god, they’re mocking me. I need to stimulate hypertrophy in my muscle cells! I need to eat as much muscle tissue as I can pry from the carcasses of other animals!

Look at me now! I’m strong. I’m jacked. I’m phenotypically fit. And soon to be biologically.

Right?

I'm joining the military. The Marines probably, or the Navy. The mission is clear — we’re going to fly helicopters in formation and then evacuate people who need medical attention. After that, we’re going to run through a snowy forest and salute.

Mission accomplished.

I am a man.

Man, man, man, this is men’s soap. These are men's pants. These are men's glasses. I'm playing a man's sport, man. I look like a man, right? You think I'm a man? I'm a man. Please tell me you think I'm a man, man.

Men's activities, men's hobbies.

I'm eating meat. I love meat. BBQ. Burgers. Men. Man. Manly. Men eat meat! We love meat. We don’t settle. We don’t compromise. We get the job done.

What is the job again?

Beer! Trucks! Cowboy hats and boots. Decisiveness. Efficiency. Calm under pressure. Towards what end again? I missed that part! Oh! Cool watches. Explosions. Hard edges.

Leather. Not that kind! I'm a man now, right? Here's a men's hat. Men’s underwear. We have special manly grooming needs that we need to pay for. This is serious man business.

Men. Man. Meat. Bourbon. Man. Beer. Man. Oh, this is a show for men. I am a man.

I drive a big truck for men. My job is a manly job.

Drinking. Smoking. Don’t ask questions. Don’t step out of line, man. We’re winners! Discipline! Kicking ass. Men. Sports. War. Man.

No women, here! They’re stuck in the ads for vacuums and toilet bowl cleaners and face paint. Man, man, man. I am a man. Please, please, please say I’m a man. You think I’m a man, right?

Do I smell like a man?

Here’s a bottle of odor for men.

A celebrity man wears the odor. Everyone agrees that he is a man. Now that I wear it, I’m a man too.

Is there a single person on earth who could possibly think I'm not a man?

I cannot accept that! I'm such a man that I can't have anyone think I'm not a man for any reason!

I will take out my leather wallet and brandish my metal credit card that signifies I hoard better than other hoarders and I will transfer some of my imaginary hoardings to physical masculine symbols until everyone in the goddamn world knows that I am the manliest man who has ever manned with men — but not in that way!

Except in the pharmaceutical ads. There I can be free to be with another man in that way. We can ride hot air balloons across Cappadocia, slow dance to live jazz, and soak in outdoor bathtubs facing the Pacific Ocean.

All I have to do is ask my doctor if my rash cream is covered by insurance.

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