Sell Me Your Product, Then Promptly Shut the Fuck Up

Boy, do I miss the days when an obnoxious jingle drilled itself into my skull until I was involuntarily humming it in the shower like some corporate-trained lab rat. I long for 30 seconds of Don Draper marketing magic, but instead get an entire minute of being called a bigot, scolded for my white heritage as my accomplishments in life are castigated and my very existence reduced to that of a minuscule bacterium that contributes to the plague of society when all I wanted were a pair of Adidas.

Before social media, there were more than six degrees of separation from those who traded dignity for attention. Today, attention is the dragon everyone is chasing and corporations are just as hooked, pushing agendas through guilt by insulting you as a customer before making the sale.

On any given day where I interact with a business, I am asked for a moment of my time to appreciate a plight that has absolutely nothing to do with our transaction, nor is anything I remotely care about.

Instead of addressing my craving for delicious chocolatey goodness, Hershey's would rather tell me how they value the strength of women by dangling some guy's balls in my face. Progressive Insurance endorses their commitment to diversity and inclusion as they plow me in the tailpipe harder each year despite my clean driving record. Hell, I can't even wash down these troubles with a glass of cheap whiskey without J&B telling me my grandpa likes to wear makeup and wander the streets at night looking for homeless guys to blow.

This constant pandering has become exhausting, especially after a long day of fighting with the IRS using TurboTax, a company proud to announce they offer tampons for men who may be bleeding for reasons other than their Schedule C.

Irony goes unnoticed as these organizations continue to bite the hands that feed them. The NFL seems to think I own a white hood, constantly plastering "End Racism" all over football fields, helmets, and jerseys in the face of my long-standing tradition of supporting players that aren't my race. Television shows and their commercials can't resist the urge to shun me for hating women, even though I remain dedicated to perfecting the art of wining and dining them so that I can eventually put my penis in one.

Even if I manage to absolve myself of these atrocities and cleanse my body of the delicious hate and bigotry I once enjoyed, it will never be enough. Gillette can't forgive me for being a biological man who grows facial hair, Listerine wants me to gargle and swish a mouthful of rainbow, and according to Dove, not even soap can wash away their firm belief that everyone is frighteningly ugly.

Eventually, this tactic will wear thin and consumers will turn to products and services that aren't exclusive to unemployable biracial lesbian couples raising an army of multiethnic children who inexplicably live in a spotless 4,000 square foot home. You can only vaporize so many tens, if not hundreds, of millions of dollars before realizing that oldest marketing trick in the book that has stood the test of time still produces results. Tell me why yours is better than the other guy's, sell me your product, then promptly shut the fuck up.