The Whiff of Swiffer's Whiff

Today I saw a certain Swiffer commercial on t.v. for the first time. The good news: two young and pretty actresses, God bless their little careerist hearts, landed jobs with national exposure. They did not threaten or obviously harm anyone with their dialogue. Their characters were pleasant and through them they depicted a major aspect of the human condition: loneliness and its relation to libidinal as well as platonic companionship. Nothing wrong with such creations. The bad news? Though anthropomorphized, these characters were, you see, pieces of DIRT. No, I'm not railing against 21st century thespians, some of whom doubtlessly though, have drunk deeply from the well polluted by over 40 years of pornography leaching (and leeching) into our so-called mainstream culture. No, these actresses were decent, without any Lohan-ish/Madonna-ish/whore-ish attitudes or looks. They were however, one was asked to imagine, actual pieces of DIRT, debris, greasy matter, decaying food particles, shedded hair, bits of shredded wheat, dust, grime, insect excrement, lint, chewing gum, Scotch tape, sweat and whatever else remains stubbornly on one's kitchen floor because it has been deprived of the sweeping, swashbuckling, all enveloping embrace of a magnificent cleaner-upper such as the charismatic El Senor Swiffer: all-purpose mop! These gals were wearing regular, demure business attire: but dresses that were, I swear, the color of olive drab vomit that must have blended itself with mud, grease and pus somehow, to produce a vision of the most unwholesome mess this side of the Love Canal. These ladies, a.k.a. sleazies-make-ya-queasies, pondered their fate as they began to seem to despair that they would ever get "picked-up" (oh, inspired paronomasia!). At that very moment, Johnny Depp-Swiffer comes diving down from the sky and the chosen chunk of matted garbage blissfully leaves her fellow fragment of feculence just as the latter preliminarily and resignedly floats the notion of monastic friendship. Her lucky pal clings ecstatically (and statically?) to the underside of Mr. Big in one of those embraces one saw at some muscle beach back in high school or college days when the prom queen could no longer resist the charms of the Big Hunk on Campus and wrapped her legs around his torso with bacchanalian abandon. Who REALLY wonders why space aliens (think Organians, dear Star Trek fans) do NOT attempt to make contact with this earthling race of ultra ninnies? If our mesomorphic black ("colored" didn't cut it then or now and "African-American" had not yet made the scene as a term in '69) buddy of Ethereal Cereal fame and Watts, Calif. (loved the old wax quart carton of milk with the familiar white and red Queensboro brand label alongside his breakfast bowl) could be informed that such a commercial REALLY would be made and that it would be shown in 41 years, he would have ejaculated ("to utter suddenly and vehemently"--Webster's Seventh New Collegiate Dictionary {so leave me alone}) once more: "No shit!". Pal, sad to say: on the contrary, yes (much) shit! And we've an "endless stench" to quote the ol' Cement Lamenter.