The truth is...I can't handle the truth

One of things I like to do to relax is watch TV.  I would like to sound more cerebral and say in my spare time I enjoy reading Proust and listening to foreign language tapes.  But that would be a lie and I try not to lie unless I'm discussing my age or my weight. 

I've just realized that I'm going to have to Google Proust before I submit this because I have no idea how to spell his name or who he is or even if he is actually a he. I also have no idea why reading him/her is supposed to make me seem intelligent.  Now it looks like I'll probably have to go on Wikipedia to figure that one out.  This is starting to sound like more work than I have time for at the moment. I may need a nap.

Now where was I?  Oh yes, watching the boob tube.  

My life philosophy up until that point was never to over think after 8 PM.  Much like eating after 7 PM it's just ill advised. That's why I love TV.  It’s simple predictable and generally requires little to no thought.  

So there I was all curled up cozy waiting for my favourite sitcom to seduce me into believing it was funny when the most unimaginable thing happened.  No, it wasn't preempted and replaced with a state of union address.  It was much worse. I had lost my remote and I was instantly transformed into crisis mode. You see, if I couldn't locate the remote I would have to........watch commercials.  

So I had a decision to make.  I could get up and root around in the dark like a desperate raccoon putting my hands into the deep recesses of couches and finding things that should remain lost. Or I could pull up my big girl panties and brave the insipid onslaught of shameless advertising.  Seeing as I wasn't sure if my tetanus shot was up to date I decided on the latter. 

My show began and nine minutes later we paused for our first commercial break. It started innocently enough.  Your average run of the mill cell service providers, a friendly accommodating insurance company (that one actually made me laugh at the irony) and so on. A mere 2 1/2 minutes later I was returned back to the sweet soothing sounds of canned laughter. I felt okay and I thought I was coping well with this archaic remoteless experience.  

Then it took a wee turn.

The ad started out with some poor woman tossing and turning.  The commentator’s voice spoke soothingly to assure me that there was hope for her restless nights.  I was feeling good and hopeful that this woman's suffering would soon end.  She sounded so lovely and caring. There were butterflies and everyone was smiling. And then....

This same blissfully calm voice started reciting the laundry list of side effects that could potentially occur.  It was quite simply horrifying. Her melodic tone told tale of the increased risk of violent episodes, irrational thoughts, suicidal thoughts, anaphylactic shock, heart attack or stroke, liver damage and death just to name a few.  All of these things could occur while using this drug that the FDA in its infinite wisdom had approved for Joe public.  This was madness.  Who needs sleep so bad that after listening to this thinks to themselves: "I'm just going to roll the dice."

This seemed unconscionable. I called to my husband and started ranting about the absurdity of it all. I went on and on and felt I was on the verge of writing a strongly worded letter to someone.   He just nodded and politely agreed. He asked how I had heard of this drug and I told him I'd seen a commercial.  His eyes grew wide with shock and he asked why on earth I would do such a thing?  I told him I lost the remote and how it all just fell apart after that.

He told me to calm down, that we would find the remote and attach it to a cinder block and it would never leave us again.  I felt better.  Not fluttering blue butterfly better but better none the less.  I guess I'm just one of those people who can't handle the truth in advertising...even when it's sugar coated with pretty flying insects. Now throw in a cute kitten playing by a rainbow and all bets are off.  Oh no...have I said too much?

(PS. I just Googled Proust and feel slightly more intelligent). 

This article is written by or on behalf of an outsourced columnist and does not necessarily reflect the views of Castanet.