Bombarded

We are bombarded by commercials
subjected to commercials, saturated
with commercials all getting into our
heads even when we don’t realize it —

pounding away at our psyches like
the pounding of a pulse on the sides
of the head, getting into our brains,
insidiously telling us we need this,

that and whatever else they are sell-
ing by featuring pretty, young, athletic
people and handsome, retirement
aged people and super cute kids,

materially successful people, con-
fident people, people we should
want to emulate, be like and if we
bought the product, if we had the

prescription in spite of the dire warn-
ings of possible death, we would be
just like them and we want so dearly
to be like them, except they are all

actors who look really good all made
up for the commercial and one of the
ways we can fight back against the
pulverizing effect of those mind-bend-

ing commercials is simply to hit the
mute button and talk to the dog and
blow a kiss to your spouse or partner
or breathe deeply and say, “Om,” and

then go back to watching the Bears
game and wonder why you took the
TV off mute or switch to your local
PBS channel assuming it is not into

one of those seeming eternal, season
to season fundraisers or just turn
it off and go for a walk; then you
might not need that prescription

that just might cause sudden death
or a slow, agonizing descent into
the nether world of utter despair
and oblivion.

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