I watch infomercials like some people watch the playoffs. I mean, I am
invested. Even when the footage begins to repeat itself in that ourobouros-type way, I keep watching. It's the rhetoric I love, the promises made. An infomercial is like a first date with a guy who seems perfect. (Four dates later, you discover that he "just doesn't like" doing certain key things in the sack. But still! Rhetoric!)
In the past, I've bought and/or been gifted with such products as the
Rotato (only useful if you're militant about peels and/or my mother)
Yoga Booty Ballet (ha!) and the
Total Tiger (I literally threw that thing into the alley behind my Chicago apartment circa 2002.)
But this thing...for lack of a finer metaphor, this thing eats pussy.
I grind coffee beans in this thing. I make smoothies. I make bad gringo guacamole that doubles as a soothing face mask. You can pour vodka and ice directly into the Magic Bullet, pulse that bitch a few times, throw in a cocktail onion and pretend it's a Gibson and that you're not an alcoholic.
I haven't tried making the BLOOBERRY MOOFINS! that the British guy in the commercial keeps crowing about, but I may have to try it. Maybe pulverized batter will cure my methface.
"'EE'S GOT STRAWBERRY BANAHNAH!"
I can't be the only person who loves this machine.