I often bemoan the fact that advertising is, at its core, false and misleading. The truth is dispensed with, post haste, if not ignored altogether, and those men in grey flannel get on about the business of filling our heads with nonsensical promises of things never to be.

Buy a particular brand of beer and turn a nothing day into a glorious adventure. Find yourself magically transported into another dimension where time and space are malleable, where the blazing summer sun instantly gives way to a bracing winter's day. Almost inexplicably (it must have something to do with the beer you just ordered, no?), you now possess mystical powers heretofore unimagined. And beautiful, saucy, sassy women who previously would not have given you the time of day now find you suddenly irresistable. All this, for the price of a lager.

Or, if you're willing to spend a bit more, commit to that special make of automobile and you'll find that your whole life has done a 180. You're smart, attractive. The babes won't leave you alone. Those suits you bought on sale at K-Mart are suddenly well-tailored and of the finest fabrics. You enjoy a new sense of respect from your peers and suddenly, you're on the fast track, career-wise. All this and rack-and-pinion steering, too.

It's utter nonsense, of course; reprehesively obvious hucksterism and I find myself gnashing my teeth as I endure these thirty-second snowjobs. But if the alternative is the reality revealed to us by the likes of Gold Bond Powder, then, brother, tell me lies, tell me sweet little lies. These repellent confessionals, peopled as they are by folks with bad grammar, worse hair and itching skin conditions, are just about more than I can take.

How do the Gold Bond folks excavate these prickly unfortunates? What's the methodology? Perhaps they have informants in sheriff's offices around the country who fill them in when there's a trailer park eviction pending. Or maybe they paid good money for the Weekly World News mailing list. It could even be they just drive about, looking for lawns studded with plaster gnomes, plastic deer and vintage Dodge Darts hoisted on blocks.

It's not that I can't feel sympathy for their suffering but, in the name of all that's decent, can't they try to bear their dry, flaky crosses with some dignity? I believe it's true that we never walk alone but if you're chafing, please, keep it to yourself.

Strangest of all is how familiar some of these faces look. I'm convinced that the Gold Bond company and Publisher's Clearing House are in cahoots, that one season's heat rash victim is the next season's lucky winner. I mean, how else could they prod these miserables into spilling the oozing details of their private chafing hell on national television, except by dangling a new fishing boat or prefab vacation home in front of them?

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