On Tuesday, while confined to what amounted to house arrest because of the mother of all whiteouts raging outside my snow-blasted window here on the edge of the tundra, I made the mistake of watching daytime television to keep from going stir crazy.
Because I recognize cruel and unusual punishment when I see it, my venture into unreality lasted only long enough for me to conclude that television’s daytime advertising is, by and large, more entertaining than television’s daytime programming. How else to characterize the disclaimers accompanying those ads for the latest over-the-counter remedy for whatever disease du jour the aggressively loud pitchman suggests may ail you?
The first part of the typical commercial extols the virtues of the elixir being hawked by the barker. Then comes the lengthy disclaimer which presumably serves both as fair warning for consumers and legal protection for manufacturers should things head south, health-wise, for anyone using the product. Heed this warning, and if you can still confidently purchase the product in question on your next trip to the local drugstore, you are a better man than I am, Gunga Din.
“Common side effects may include uncontrollable shaking, headache, dizziness, painful upper body rash, trouble swallowing, ringing of the ears, drowsiness, severe abdominal pain, double vision, upset stomach, depression, anxiety, thoughts of suicide and delusions of grandeur,” a disclaimer for a particular medicine might warn. “Do not drink alcohol while taking this product. If pregnant or breast-feeding, consult a health professional before use. Stop usage and call a doctor if new symptons occur, if redness or swelling is present, or if pain gets worse or lasts for more than 10 days.”
Other than that, enjoy.
About all that’s missing is the disclosure that some people have been known to foam at the mouth, chase rabbits and bay at the moon after taking the medicinal concoction. Still, it truly must pay to advertise, or the manufacturers wouldn’t be spending big bucks on the promotions.
Not that the patent medicine crowd has a corner on scary pharmaceutical disclaimers, mind you. Read the literature that comes with most anything a physician might prescribe to treat whatever bodily disorder you may have, and if it doesn’t occur to you that the cure may be worse than the disease, you likely have a malfunctioning imagination to go along with your perceived ailment.
Television ads can also entertain in other ways. Two that I watched on my brief flirtation with daytime television leap to mind. One features G. Gordon Liddy, the loose-cannon former FBI agent who helped engineer the 1972 Watergate break-in scandal. Liddy shills for an outfit that would have us remove our life savings from beneath our mattresses and exchange the stash for gold.
When I see that one, I think not of the alleged advantages of getting into gold, but of those halcyon days of Watergate when each new day promised a twist in the case more bizarre than yesterday’s. I picture grand juries and mesmerizing televised Congressional hearings, cover-ups and clandestine plots, co-conspirators too numerous to mention and a disgraced president, forced to resign, waving goodbye from a helicopter which would whisk him into permanent hibernation on the Left Coast.
The second ad, which entertains via sheer aggravation, features a fast talker allegedly in the business of helping deadbeats maneuver the Internal Revenue Service into giving them a break on their tax bills under the IRS Tax Relief Agreement.
“We owed the IRS $134,000, and we settled for only $12,000,” one couple proudly gushes. “I owed $47,000 and wound up paying only $3,800,” exclaims a fellow sporting an annoying grin, and I signal for a time-out.
“Whoa. Not so fast, Big Guy,” I shout at the silent screen. “What about those of us who paid our taxes in full and on time? Where does your little game of let’s make a deal with the IRS leave us?” The questions are rhetorical. No answers expected, none forthcoming.