Going to Circle K for a B-52 Bomber
I was watching Meet the Press the other day when they went to a commercial break. Normally, I won’t watch any commercials, but my yellow lab mix, Homer, had jumped up on the couch to be next to me and his old ass fell asleep on the remote. I’m glad he did, because I got to see the greatest commercial ever! There were fireworks and fighter jets in this ad, as well as some American flags and talk of innovation, prosperity, and protecting the good old US of A from its enemies. Immediately, I wanted to support the company that had produced this ad. Since I needed smokes and beer, anyway, I thought I’d buy some of their stuff at the Circle K down the street while purchasing the products that would surely lead to my premature demise.
“Ian! What’s my favorite piece of eye candy doing here on his day off?” The store manager asked. “Is that girlfriend of yours out of town?” Despite the fact that I’ve previously explained to her that I don’t have any interest in sleeping with a married woman, she constantly makes sexually suggestive comments to me. It was fun for a minute, but got old quickly. I’m not a piece of meat, ladies!
“She’s at home waiting for me,” I replied, ignoring her salacious stare. I then explained the commercial on Meet the Press and told her I was curious if there were any of the company’s products for sale in the store.
“Maybe. What’s the name of the company?”
“Boeing,” I replied.
“Boeing? Like, the airplane company? This is a convenience store. You can’t buy an airplane here.”
“Obviously, but they must make other stuff. Why else would they run television ads?”
“True. Why don’t we find out what they sell. Then I could tell you if we have any of their stuff.”
That sounded like the right approach. I took out my phone and blushed, a little embarrassed that I hadn’t thought to investigate their product line before leaving the house. My old, slow phone was taking too long to pull up the Boeing web page, so the store manager took out her own phone, which had come out the previous day. Like a lot of po’ white trash, she always has the newest phone. She also lives in a dilapidated shit-hole, but drives a truck that’s worth about as much as my house.
She scrolled down their web page, looking up occasionally to ogle me and lick her lips. “Airplanes, fighter jets, attack helicopters, outer space stuff,” she muttered as she scrolled down the page. “Ian, we don’t have any of this stuff. None of this would even fit through our front door. You could try Walmart, but I’m pretty sure you won’t find any of this there, either. I think I’d remember seeing a fighter jet at Walmart, although I don’t go into the sporting goods section that much.”
I furrowed my brow, confused. “Why would they run commercials on television if they don’t have anything to sell to the general public? That makes zero sense.” Then, something occurred to me. It was a scary thought, but it was the only reasonable conclusion I could draw. “You know, when I watch the news, they’re always talking about our involvement in world affairs like it’s an absolute given. Sometimes, there’s some debate about the degree to which we should be involved, but never about whether we should or shouldn’t be. I hear the phrase ‘American interests in the region’ thrown around a lot, but no one ever asks exactly what those interests are. Defense contractors like Boeing make a ton of taxpayer dough off of our never-ending world policing. I wonder if they run the commercials as a sort of payola to help shape the narrative when these things are discussed. It would be a bad look if they just handed over a bunch of money, but no one would question ad revenue. Do you think that’s what it is? Are they buying a say in how these things are presented?”
She looked at me like she’d just smelled something rancid. “Who cares? Let’s go in the back room and you can take me to Pound Town.”
“Uh, I gotta go.” As I walked out the door, it occurred to me that I had forgotten my beer and smokes. Not wanting to go back inside, I went down the street to 7-11. While waiting on line, I gave a cursory glance around the store. They didn’t have any B-52 bombers, either.
“Ian! What’s my favorite piece of eye candy doing here on his day off?” The store manager asked. “Is that girlfriend of yours out of town?” Despite the fact that I’ve previously explained to her that I don’t have any interest in sleeping with a married woman, she constantly makes sexually suggestive comments to me. It was fun for a minute, but got old quickly. I’m not a piece of meat, ladies!
“She’s at home waiting for me,” I replied, ignoring her salacious stare. I then explained the commercial on Meet the Press and told her I was curious if there were any of the company’s products for sale in the store.
“Maybe. What’s the name of the company?”
“Boeing,” I replied.
“Boeing? Like, the airplane company? This is a convenience store. You can’t buy an airplane here.”
“Obviously, but they must make other stuff. Why else would they run television ads?”
“True. Why don’t we find out what they sell. Then I could tell you if we have any of their stuff.”
That sounded like the right approach. I took out my phone and blushed, a little embarrassed that I hadn’t thought to investigate their product line before leaving the house. My old, slow phone was taking too long to pull up the Boeing web page, so the store manager took out her own phone, which had come out the previous day. Like a lot of po’ white trash, she always has the newest phone. She also lives in a dilapidated shit-hole, but drives a truck that’s worth about as much as my house.
She scrolled down their web page, looking up occasionally to ogle me and lick her lips. “Airplanes, fighter jets, attack helicopters, outer space stuff,” she muttered as she scrolled down the page. “Ian, we don’t have any of this stuff. None of this would even fit through our front door. You could try Walmart, but I’m pretty sure you won’t find any of this there, either. I think I’d remember seeing a fighter jet at Walmart, although I don’t go into the sporting goods section that much.”
I furrowed my brow, confused. “Why would they run commercials on television if they don’t have anything to sell to the general public? That makes zero sense.” Then, something occurred to me. It was a scary thought, but it was the only reasonable conclusion I could draw. “You know, when I watch the news, they’re always talking about our involvement in world affairs like it’s an absolute given. Sometimes, there’s some debate about the degree to which we should be involved, but never about whether we should or shouldn’t be. I hear the phrase ‘American interests in the region’ thrown around a lot, but no one ever asks exactly what those interests are. Defense contractors like Boeing make a ton of taxpayer dough off of our never-ending world policing. I wonder if they run the commercials as a sort of payola to help shape the narrative when these things are discussed. It would be a bad look if they just handed over a bunch of money, but no one would question ad revenue. Do you think that’s what it is? Are they buying a say in how these things are presented?”
She looked at me like she’d just smelled something rancid. “Who cares? Let’s go in the back room and you can take me to Pound Town.”
“Uh, I gotta go.” As I walked out the door, it occurred to me that I had forgotten my beer and smokes. Not wanting to go back inside, I went down the street to 7-11. While waiting on line, I gave a cursory glance around the store. They didn’t have any B-52 bombers, either.
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