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“If you do a commercial, you are off of the artistic roll call. Forever.” – Bill Hicks
I don’t have a problem with celebrities selling their features, voices, and wildly varying degrees of talent to corporations for the express purpose of advertising products completely unrelated to their respective fields, in an attempt to attract the consumer dollar. Really, I don’t.
After all, a person’s assets are his or her own. We have to do the best we can with the hand we’ve been dealt; I couldn’t impugn instantly recognizable personalities for cashing in on their more marketable qualities (such as fame), any more than I could criticize a person from any other societal strata (let’s say a poorly-educated, unemployable woman, for example) for using his or her particular areas of expertise, were they in demand (such as a discreet, anonymous front-seat blowjob, for example), to make a buck. The bottom line is, ya gotta put food on the table, and many of the career paths which result in fame, be it professional sports, acting, popular music, or modeling (super and otherwise), depend largely upon the qualities of youth. Many also carry with them inherent and peripheral health risks – get hurt, get ugly, get addicted, or, God forbid, get old, and you’ve got to spend the rest of your days living on your savings. A paltry few million dollars doesn’t stretch the way it used to; who among us could blame the icons of our time for feathering the nest with a little supplemental income?
Besides, the celebrities believe wholeheartedly in the products they endorse, don’t they? Of course they do; don’t be silly. I unswervingly believe that Ray Charles regularly washes down five Arby’s Regular Roast Beef sandwiches (which he scored at the astonishingly low price of five ninety-five) with a Pepsi, often in the company of Faith Hill and Aretha. When the transmission in James Brolin’s Jag begins to slip a bit on the way to that big comeback audition, where does he go to have it worked on? Aamco, naturally, and did you even have to ask? Suzanne Somers’ workout room is doubtless crammed full of helpful torso- and thigh-developing devices, John Goodman’s kitchen trash barrel contains nothing but Burger King wrappers, and without Nutragena’s godsent exfoliating lotions alone, Jennifer Love Hewitt would probably look, well, like a regular girl. America at large has put its implicit trust in its idols, and the stars respect that – if they say it’s good, then man, it’s good, and who are you to doubt the veracity of, of all things, a celebrity?
But there are nay-sayers out there, cynics whose faith in the integrity of stardom is less than absolute. Rotten apples, every one, casting a shadow of doubt across the immaculate vista of American fame. They don’t believe Tom Selleck’s kindly assurances that soon, your voice will unlock your apartment door for you if your hands are full of groceries that a comedian told you to buy. They’ve never seen Rosie and Penny cavorting down the aisles of their local K-Mart, and for some reason that proves they don’t shop there. It’s digusting, their lack of trust, but, simply for the sake of putting their suspicions to rest once and for all, allow me to submit the following:
What if the celebrities were to really, and I mean really, put themselves on the line? That contractual provision required them to stick their necks out for the products? Of course they would, there’s no question about that, but would that finally silence the Doubting Thomases in the gallery?
Think about it. If your dear old grammy passes away, and her Golden Ager Life Insurance, or whatever it is, seems a bit dodgy about fully covering her burial expenses, instead of filing a tiresome and expensive civil action, you get to beat Lou Rawls senseless, with no strings attached. The company flies him in, you go to town on him for a few minutes, end of problem. Catharsis, immediate gratification, no muss, no fuss, no paperwork. Let’s say you fill your trusty Camaro with that longer-endurance synthetic motor oil from Castrol, and then you crack your block after a mere thirty-five hundred miles. You make a call, and the next day, Tom Berenger (or that chick from the Christina Applegate sitcom, it’s your choice, The Customer Is Always Right!) is standing on your stoop, awaiting retribution. One Subaru recall equals one shot to Paul ‘Crocodile Dundee’ Hogan’s crotch. Or when you get food poisoning from Hardee’s (and everybody does, sooner or later), Smokey Robinson will cheerfully pin Vonda Shepherd’s arms behind her back for you, while Norm MacDonald provides a snappy, sardonic blow-by-blow commentary.
And that would just be the start! Eventually, Charleton Heston could conceivably be held accountable for every hunting accident in the nation; you lucky mourning families who get first crack, be sure to use a small caliber and wing him – leave some for the rest. Did my bag of rice get to that Ethiopian village? You’re not sure? Come here, Sally.
The obvious rehabilitative effect such a policy could have on America’s nuisance lawsuit-choked legal system is a mere perk, when one realizes the larger implications. The important thing is that our celebrities remain unimpeachable fonts of righteous integrity, unbesmirched, the gods among men we need them to be in order to guide us through these troubled times.
Just a thought.
Weakfish@compuserve.com
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