Attack Of The Psycho Waiters

As loyal readers of these scribblings will know, I'm no great fan of most TV advertising. Most of it is simply banal, but occasionally there are shining gems of idiocy that not only manage to annoy me, they make me want to take a sledgehammer to whatever concrete manifestation of the product I can find.

Maybe it says something about the shows I watch, but the brain-twisting spot I'm seeing most often lately is for Nexium, the "purple pill," wherein a woman is at an Italian restaurant with her chums and proceeds to have a psychotic break while the waiter recites the specials.

While everyone around her laughs merrily, and people at the surrounding tables eat pasta in slow motion, the woman hears the waiter, in a sepulchral tone, describe the horrible things the daily special will do to her gastric tract.

It's like an Edvard Munch student film: the psychological browbeating, the sinister waiter, the implication that you'll be an ulcer-riddled social outcast, squatting in the corner snarfing breadsticks while your friends hammer down capellini de pollo.

No one has yet hunted down and exterminated the "Can you hear me now" Verizon guy, and in fact now we're seeing his female counterpart and even monkeys mimicing his insipid behavior.

How about we merge brands, and have one of those oh-so-touching Sprint picture-phone commercials, with the picture being send that of the Verizon android being mowed down by a taxi?

Not all is lost in the space between the shows, though. General Motors, in an obvious effort to counterprogram against Chrysler's inexplicable insistence on using the Caterwauling Canadian, Celine Dion, to sell their products, has rolled out a new commercial featuring Meat Loaf's "Paradise By Dashboard Light."

While prospective buyers contemplate their chunks of Detroit metal during GM's new "24-hour test drive," Loaf and Patty Russo go back and forth. It's sheer genius, and made me want to run right out and buy a Suburban.

OK, not quite, but it WAS good.

And now, back to our show, such as it is.

The Thong Remains The Same

Joseph Gottschalk, of San Antonio, isn't enamored of wearing too much in the way of clothing when he's out riding his bike on the streets of this Texas city. In fact, Joe's raised the ire of many of his fellow San Antonians by his flat refusal to wear anything other than a thong while riding.

The neighbors, passers-by and just about everyone else has phoned the police, but by city ordinance Joe's free to let his freak flag fly as long as the, er, flagpole is appropriately covered.

Now, I've lived in Texas for many years, and I think Joe's lack of raiment is going to prove itself to be a self-correcting problem. You see, Texas has a way of encouraging folks and critter that spend a lot of time outdoors to cover up. Why do you think armadillos have shells? In previous columns, I've mentioned the Texas wildlife -- mosquitoes that make Vlad Dragul look like a rank amateur, chiggers, fire ants, killer bees and all manner of other hellspawned insecta.

Then there's the sun, which has been known to flat boil the brains of those incautious enough to wander about between noon at 5 p.m. without a hat on. And that dry San Antonio air does nothing to slow down the UV rays. The locals, I hear, have a bar game they like to play wherein a Welshman is tied shirtless to a picnic table and the players place bets on how many minutes it will take him to turn brick red. Notice I said minutes.

Calling Witnesses ... Of Interplanetary Craft

With "The X-Files" and cousin series like "Third Wave" and "The Visitor" gone from all but the SciFi Channel, it's getting harder and harder to find a good bunch of abductees anymore.

Stanton Friedman is doing his part to make sure the flying craft and their shenanigans don't fade away, though, but he's racing the undertaker.

Friedman is trying to get together all the remaining witnesses to the Roswell, N.M., UFO crash of 1947. (And to those of you about to write in and tell me it was a weather balloon, save your fingers. Better yet, DO write me, I've got some land to sell you.) He's contacted quite a few so far, but is convinced there are more who have stories to tell but don't know who to talk to.

If you're a Roswell witness, or you know one, you can reach Friedman at (877) 457-0232. It's a toll-free call.

If you've got any other sort of UFO stories to tell or photos to share, Drop me a line anytime.

Save Me A Drumstick

As a preview to next week's "evil animals" column, let me present the case of the Scherbaum family, whose life in Marion, Iowa, was thrown into chaos by the untimely arrival of a wild turkey, who made his presence known by crashing through a ground-floor window into the house.

The police were summoned, and the turkey finally waddled out the front door and resumed its normal life.

Now, my boss, Lori, is from Iowa, and she tells me that folks there are pretty beef-oriented. I can understand that, but when dinner delivers itself in the form of a walking, squawking feathered entrße, you darned sure don't open the front door and let it WALK.

Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got to go string nets in front of the windows in case any Iowa turkeys decide to migrate south.

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