Sometimes I wish I lived in a Smuckers commercial.
I’d spend my days savoring the sweet moments of youth, bathed in a perfect golden haze. My simple, heartwarming charms would be accompanied by a twinkling piano and the dulcet tones of a smiling, fleshy-voiced narrator.The warm nostalgia would flow so thickly that it would make Tom Bosley blast his genitals off with a shotgun (if he weren’t in the grave already).
Intercutting the images of me plucking ripe apricots would be mouthwatering close ups of savory jams being spread generously on perfectly toasted bagels. On and on, the jolly narrator would blather about natural ingredients and the tangled lineage of Old Man Smuckers while I smeared the Jelly of Life across my bare torso and thighs in sensuous slow motion. Viewers would smile warmly as I convulsed in syrupy bliss and the elderly narrator would ofter a soft chuckle at my unnatural perversion.
Then the music would swell, and in wistful ecstasy I would scream out:”SMUCKERS! I GIVE MYSELF TO YOU!”
The camera would pull out, a jar of Smuckers would appear, and in the distant, hazy background I would become one with a pile of strawberries.
That’s the perfect existence, right there. Of course, my Smuckers commercial would be assailed as an abomination against God and science, causing networks to reject the ad and driving angry, sledgehammer-wielding mobs to smash and smear every last jar of Smuckers on earth, but it’d be worth it.
Smuckers: It’s worth getting fired or divorced for.