and loveable fabric softener spokesperson (he is pretty well androgynous) fan mail. Though, to my knowledge, he never replied², I continued to cheer like the little sugar fiend that I was whenever he came on TV hawking his magical wares. It actually bordered on obsession, and I was quite distraught when my mother persistently bought whatever fabric softener was on sale rather than Snuggle. This is probably advertising at its best. Recognizable spokesbear. Appealing to children. Friendly, loveable image. Perfect.
      Did I mention that I’ve apparently forgotten how to multiply fractions? I tried to the other day and my mind was just as blank as could be.
      As a red-blooded American, I have a certain contempt for all things Canadian. I think it stems from watching Strange Brew too many times, or maybe it’s just because our currency has the superior exchange rate. Whatever the reason, I must admit I love Mentos commercials despite their Canadian origins. Okay, I’ll admit they’re cheesy. Really, really cheesy. Heck, the cinematography is worthy of a video of a wedding or bar mitzvah. But they do have a certain campy appeal. I fully believe that, provided I had a roll of Mentos in my pocket at the time, I could transform my torn evening gown into a chic mini dress just in time for my red carpet arrival. Or maybe I could find four big guys to rescue my car when someone’s parked too close. Mentos: the fresh maker.
      Does anyone know the capitals of all fifty states? I was supposed to have learned this once, but I seem to have forgotten. I would settle for the capital of New Hampshire…
      In the name of complete honesty, I also make the following confessions: I sing along with advertisements for the AM Gold³ CD set. I know all the words to “I’d like to buy the world a Coke.” Sometimes I recite the marshmallows in my Lucky Charms in a horrible Irish accent. Sometimes I really get the feeling that God is leading me to try one of those Hebrew National All-Beef Franks. I get excited when I’m home from college because I recognize all the jingles on the radio. I’ve been known to randomly shout “Cooooo-ookie Crisp.” Sometimes I think I’d like to meet the Keebler Elves; heck, I have a friend from high school who should date the bossy chief elf. I occasionally consider switching brands of razors or soft drinks or laundry detergents so people will stare in mute wonder as I strut down the street. Also I can’t remember my siblings’ birthdays. Or where I’ve put all my clean socks, or my keys.
      This is my point⁴: advertising is often brilliantly constructed to stick in our minds. Unfortunately, it seems to be taking up most of the available space in my particular mind. I could insert a lot of moralistic platitudes about being a conscientious consumer or about focusing our thoughts on God rather than the blatant messages of vapid materialism that our culture bombards us with or about the importance of freedom of speech in a free society. But I won’t. Instead let it plainly be known that we at Writing on the Stall do not endorse any of the advertisers you may see on this site. Unless, of course, those advertisers include any of the following⁵:
           Evil Gnomes, Inc.
           Sugarhigh Cereal Corp., of Battlecreek, MI
           Androgynous Stuffed Toys Anonymous
           The Fraction Multiplier 3000
           The Coalition to Mock All Things Canadian
           Professional Wedding and Bar Mitzvah Video, Ltd.
           Big Guys Who Move Small Cars in a Manner that
           Threatens Yuppies Needlessly, Inc.
           The 50-State-erator 900T
           The Name the Damn Horse Already Foundation
           The Irish Alliance Against Animated Defamation
           Machete Shavers of America, Inc.
           The Society to Protect the Rights of Escaped
           Prisoners who look vaguely like Dogs
           www.cola related belching is rather impolite.com
           Kleen Sock Finder Corp.
______________________________
²I do not mean to slander this fine civically minded bear. I believe I wrote him in my five-year-old rendition of cursive in a purple crayon. It would’ve been impossible to respond in anything resembling a sensible manner. Snuggle Bear, wherever you are, I forgive you.
³Let it be known that AM Gold is not my idea of quality music…these are the songs that everybody knows, but mostly people are too ashamed to mention that they know them.
⁴Yes, I do have a point. I usually get around to it eventually.
⁵Just in case some of you are really, really dense, I made all these up. As far as I know, none of these exist. Writing on the Stall has not “sold out.” Unless, of course, one or more of these corporations or interest groups does happen to exist and would like to contribute a small but heart-felt sum to help in our tireless crusade against injustice everywhere.

WHORE
by Irwin Schweenie

      Some say it is the oldest profession, to them this is a comfort. The folly of man is to find error in his fellow, while never suspecting himself of offense.
      This profession of old once consisted of women who rented their bodies for pleasure. The practice became so common that through the passage of time it mutated until traces of it's constitution spread into many other aspects of life.
      Take me for example, I'm a jewelry whore. Instead of pushing sex, I'm pushing the lust of self, the ideal that if you buy what I'm selling you'll be happier, more glamorous; I'm pushing pride, prestige, and arrogance. Instead of wearing crotch-less underwear and fishnet hose, I wear slacks and a tie, attire designed to make me appear respectable, trustworthy. However, just like my cocaine addicted, herpes infected, nympho counterparts; (many jewelry whores are on coke too) I size up my "johns" long before I even make the approach. Your meat from the time you step through my door. First I look at the obvious, clothing, jewelry, who they are with, their level of confidence. (you have to sell differently to confident people: they are usually wealthy) After I have silently judged my victim I spring the trap, and this is where the real fucking begins. Based on what their body language, moods, and words tell me, I turn tricks until it is sold.
      I am a whore because: I speak with people I normally wouldn't talk to. I smile when I don't want to. I say things I don't like to say. I like things i despise, work for ideals I loathe, in short, I prostitute every fiber of my being. It causes my self enmity, and I do it all for the money.