And Now, A Word From Our Sponsors

We all know that commercials have persistently and painfully suckled all the joy out of watching network television. If I never see another ad for Tucks Medicated Pads, endure Sally Field and her disintegrating bones, grind my teeth through a thousandth bitchy woman in a sweaterset preparing rich, chocolate Ovaltine for a hoard of Mormon children or hear Wilford Brimley utter the word "Dia-beat-us" ever again, I will die a happy man.

The internet, though it is a free-flowing river of social liberties, endless, creative pornography and clickable shopping, is no freer from the chains of advertising than television. I spent a little time this past week collecting some of my favorite banner ads that appear over my Yahoo Mail. Rest assured, I didn't save any of the banner ads that appear of all the sites I visit, or I'd be in trouble with some of my more conservative readers (Hi, Salt Lake City!)

We'll start with my favorite one:

I mean-- why do I need to click on this? Isn't it obvious?

She's a drug dealer. And/or a prostitute.

Personally, I'm afraid to click on banner ads. I've never done it, and I'm reasonably convinced that something terrible will happen to my computer and/or my humanity if I do click on one. I was actually afraid just to right-click on them to save them to my hard-drive. I mean, does your brain get slow and sloppy once you start clicking banner ads? Do you become a fat woman named Gladys who sits in a fart-enrobed La-Z-Boy watching The Price is Right while Fritos adhere themselves to your ass dimples? I mean, I'm sure it's not an instantaneous process, but that's how it starts at any rate.

What the hell were we talking about? Oh, right-- banner ads. We're used to thinking of ads and commercials as existing to sell us a product of some kind. Well, the internet has changed all that. Now, we need to acclimate ourselves to the idea that there are some ads that exist, ostensibly, to ask us dumbfuck questions like:

And,

Lots of people love to give their opinions on things (scientists call these people "bloggers") and I'm sure that fat Gladys' the world over are thrilled to think that their opinion about a Jacko rebirth or Madonna's ill-achieved 1989 Diane Keaton look, and that they might actually receive something of value in return for their meaningless opinions. Which they won't. No Old Navy gift card for you, Bad Gladys! You'd just spend it on solid color t-shirts that you would sew together to make a hammock for your dimple-ass.

Don't worry, though, there are still banner ads that are trying to sell us shit we don't need.

I mean, I certainly don't need Resveratrol. I'm a twenty-eight year old male. And I'm pretty sure that you don't need it either, whether you've got wrinkles or not. First of all, Dr. Oz likes this, so you automatically know it's bullshit. Second of all, if you have wrinkles, learn to love them-- they ain't going anywhere.

I have to admit, though, I started feeling kind of weird about my life when I kept seeing these kinds of ads popping up over my inbox:

And, um, this one:

I mean-- hasn't internet trolling and tracking gotten better than this? Aren't they supposed to be monitoring my shopping and viewing and clicking habits? Aren't they supposed to know I don't look like I'm ready to start up a canasta league with Betty White? Why are you trying to sell me stairchairs, bedpans and Botox? Come on, interwebz, I thought ye knew me better than ye do.

Then I see a banner ad like that and I say, "Ah. They've got me." Two things of which I am very much afraid: my mortgage, and my death. Good job, interwebz.

They've also really got my number with this beauty, too:

No, I don't have a flabby mancrush for Hugh Downs-- but I do always think I'm having a heart attack. I'm reasonably convinced I'm having one right now, actually. Will you pay off my mortgage in the event of my death?

I joke about the necessity for these heart attack symptom ads that allow Mr. Hugh Downs to continue to make his mortgage payments prior to the event of his death, but, evidently, there is a need, a real need for ads like his. Because products exist in this society that were invented, it seems, for the sole purpose of hastening our demise...

Like Bacon. Salt.

Other ads play to our insecurities and our competitive nature, by asking us, in much the same vein as "Are You Smarter Than a 5th Grader" if we think our intellect can best that of someone else's.

They often post Miley Cyrus', Sarah Palin's and, to make the playing field fair, Tiny Tim. On a whim, inspired by this ad, I went to a website that offers free IQ tests, because I'd never taken one. The first question read something like this:

"Three dogs, six chickens and four llamas are standing in a farmyard in Chernobyl. How many legs do they have?"

I froze. Math. I clicked the beautiful red X in the upper right-hand corner of my screen immediately. Obviously, I am not smarter than Barack Obama, but I'm probably not smarter than Miley or Tiny either.

Oh well, at least I know what to season my food with.