Life in Ad World

“Same jeans!” said Ad Girlfriend.

“Only they’re hers, instead of mine,” said Steve.

Ad Girlfriend glanced over at Steve, and though her sparkly doe eyes blinked, her smile did not waver. “Same stain!” continued Ad Girlfriend.

“Yeah,” said Steve. “She actually went into my closet and messed up my jeans with the same shit that she spilled all over hers. Just so everyone knows.”

“Only here on the left, I’m using new and improved Aloft, with FabriCare!”

“And here on the right,” said Steve, “I am using the leading Bargain Brand of bleach. Which I picked up at the store because it was a dollar and eighty cents cheaper than her stuff, and, y’know, since they cut my hours at the canning plant, I thought, hey, maybe I could use the extra money to buy a loaf of bread or something instead of fucking FabriCare, because last I checked, you can’t eat FabriCare.”

“Ha HA!” said Ad Girlfriend, triumphantly, chucking her pants into the wash. “Now we’ll see how wrong my stupid boyfriend can get!”

“Also,” said Steve, as he did the same, “we wouldn’t be so strapped right now if she hadn’t insisted on buying two goddamn washing machines.”

“Thirty minutes later…” said Ad Girlfriend, taking the pants back out again.

“Wait, what?” said Steve.

Ad Girlfriend shook out the pants, which were indeed clean and new-looking, and held them up. “As you can see, not only is the stain gone, but the entire pair of pants has become, brighter, handsomer and overall, better. If only I could put my stupid boyfriend in the wash!”

“Um, yeah,” said Steve, darkly. “Listen, Ad Girlfriend–”

“In fact, my pants are now the Great White Hope of America! Schoolchildren will write letters to my pants, asking them how they became so great! And I will tell them: FabriCare, honey! FabriCare!”

“Okay, look, never mind,” said Steve. “Do you have a ballpark on how long you’re going to be talking about your pants? Because–”

“IN FACT,” said Ad Girlfriend, grabbing at a nearby slip of paper, probably a receipt from the library or something, “HERE’S THE FIRST ONE NOW! ‘DEAR AD GIRLFRIEND!’ IT READS!!! ‘I JUST LOVE YOUR PANTS!!!’ WHILE I KEEP READING THIS, LET’S CHECK BACK ON MY STUPID BOYFRIEND!!!”

Steve did nothing for a moment but glare at Ad Girlfriend. Then he turned to his washing machine and slammed the lid open hard enough to cause it to bounce back closed again on his other hand. He roared in pain, said a few more words that would raise some eyebrows during their scheduled prime time slot, then ripped the lid back open and beat on it for a while to make it stay open. “Okay! All right!” He took a couple of deep breaths, and removed his pants (from the machine).

“As you can see,” said Ad Girlfriend, “Steve’s pants are not only still stained, but they’re also FULL OF HOLES!!!”

“I absolutely cannot believe this,” said Steve.

“Clearly, Steve’s ‘Bargain Bleach’ was–”

Steve’s fists closed around the lapels of Ad Girlfriend’s blazer.

“–erk?” said Ad Girlfriend.

“You put something in the water, didn’t you?” said Steve, his voice dangerous and quiet.

“Um…” said Ad Girlfriend.

“You put something in the water! Battery acid, or something! That was my last pair of pants!”

“Steve, honey,” said Ad Girlfriend.

“Now,” said Steve, “All I have to wear on my entire lower half is this pair of Spandex tights I have on.”

Ad Girlfriend grinned, her face a mask of mad perky sheepishness. “Oh yeah!” said Ad Girlfriend, her voice tremulous. “I’ve been meaning to talk to you about those! Do you realize that the wrong brand of detergent can ruin delicate fibers such as–”

Steve shoved Ad Girlfriend roughly up against her washing machine and turned away. “Forget this,” said Steve. “I’m going to go live with Porn Girlfriend. At least I can have sex with her!”

* * *

“Oh, baby!” said Porn Girlfriend, breathlessly, leaning over so you could totally see her cleavage if you were in a position somewhere out in front of the couch near the room’s fourth wall, which was not where Steve was. “Look at those professional wrestlers on television!”

“Mm hm,” said Steve.

“Steve,” said Porn Girlfriend, poutily, “why aren’t you a real man like those professional wrestlers are?”

“Porn Girlfriend, it’s been, what, like six months? All we do is sit around your nondescript house that the filmmakers used just because it happened to be available and talk about other guys and how much better they are than me. When I first moved into your nondescript house I was, y’know, thinking we might have…” He gestured futilely. “You know…?”

“Ooh!” squealed Porn Girlfriend, her eyes locked on the television. “A full body slam! I would totally ask one of THOSE guys to do me!” She turned back to Steve. “I read in the paper how there’s a big professional wrestling recruitment competition in town this weekend! Someone who really loved me would sign up try and win the top prize, a contract with the World Federation of Wrestling!”

Steve squeezed his eyes shut, took a couple deep breaths, then opened them again. “All right,” he said. “What the hell. I already got the tights.”