When I was a little girl, we didn't have The Tosito Bowl. The Orange Bowl was just the Orange Bowl. I don't know what in the hell the super fast shipping of FedEx has to do with football and, for the life of me, I can't figure what the damn Brut Sun Bowl is.
Either way, it is clear that marketing and consumerism have become as deeply ingrained in our society as the unbriddled lust some middle aged women have for the hottest, newest Coach purse. I'm friends with a few of those Coach purse junkies. You know I love them, but when the conversation turns to these must-have accessories, theirs eyes glaze over and their mouths water like frat boys at a titty bar at the mere thought and, I swear to God, you could buy their first borns if you run a hard bargain.
We've been being screwed by the long dick of multi-national corporations for a while now. So long that we don't even seem to notice it anymore. The spidering effect of this endless marketing was particularly apparent in a conversation I had with my four-year-old son yesterday morning. His mind is so consumed with all things Thomas the Train that his obsession tops even those ladies who are searching eBay for Coach purses as I type this.
"Momma," he said, "You need to call Santa Claus to go to Wal-Mart and get me two more trains. I need Duncan and Molly."
(In case you are wondering why he demanded that I call Santa, he "hears" me on the phone with Ole Saint Nick at least three times per day making a report on the latest Christmas-busting shenanigans he and his brother have pulled. Now I realize doing this, I'm just another link in the chain of the corporate Christmas. What can I say, it works!)
I tried to explain to Ridge that Santa wasn't at Wal-Mart, that he was at the North Pole building toys with the elves.
"I don't want him to build my trains," Ridge huffed. "Just tell Santa to go buy them at Wal-Mart."
That little wise ass, I have no idea where he gets that.
Anyways, as we left town yesterday, we drove passed the local Wal-Mart, last minute shoppers crawling through the parking lot like fleas on a mangy coyote.
Ridge pointed out his window, excited by the mere sight of his Holy Land, and declared, "Look, Momma, that's where Santa is going to buy my toys!"
That's right, Readers, you aren't fooling my kid. He knows there's no damn elves diligently assembling his toys at the top of the world. He may be four, but he's no fool. Hell, the only reason he still believes in Santa is because he knows his mother's and father's asses are too damn tight to be footing the bill for all this bullshit.