What a Nice Guy by Phil Torcivia

Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Hey Flo

I’m so tired of insurance commercials. I blame the gecko, caveman, and that mega-bumpit-headed Flo. I hate her. She is a cross between an evil nurse, a clown, and a pre-tan Snooki. It’s not only her look that annoys me. I don’t like her attitude. So, there. I’ve waited many decades to say that line, which I heard as a child so often: I don’t like your attitude.

She’s too bubbly.

Public servants should not overexert themselves in attempts to seem pleasant. It’s obvious to patrons they’re trying too hard. Fake smiles and pleasantries are nerve-grating. I long for the day when my bartender admits she’s in a miserable mood and would much prefer a steaming bubble bath to muddling my fruit.

Insurance is unavoidable and it provides no pleasure. I don’t want to spend any time at all shopping for it. Just give me the cheapest one and let me get back to the NHL playoffs, please.

Why are all of the men Flo waits on, emasculated heaps straight from the cast of Broadway musicals? One dude’s carrying a man purse, another is posing for pictures like he’s on Ru Paul’s Drag Race, and even the motorcycle dude smells like a Village Person, not freedom. The pansies who work for the competitor, but shop at Progressive, look like they came from The Gaytrix. (I mean … look, I’ve never seen it. Honest. I’m just imagining. Do not cast me in the next commercial.)

Oh, how I wish I could enter Flo’s store.

“Well, hello there. Gee, that’s quite a flashy T-shirt you have on there, sir. I bet you’re in the market for auto insurance for your orange Porsche.”
“One more remark like that and I will slap you across the labia.”
“Woah, no need to be violent there, mister. Maybe it’s a red Mercedes?”
“It’s a black fucking Jeep, Flo. Say, does that lipstick smear when you … you know … work the stick shift.”
“I have no idea to what you’re referring. Say, walk with me over here to our price board and let’s see how much money you can save with Progressive.”
“I have a better idea. Let me take you to the beach and treat you to a screaming chicken cutlet.”
“Hm. You know, you are cute, in a curious way.”
“Thank you.”
“You’ve certainly piqued my interest and I do love the beach—then again, you knew that when you saw my corpse-ish tan. Is the cutlet some sort of barbeque specialty of yours?”
“Here’s how it works: We find a secluded area on Moonlight Beach and go at each other like rhesus monkeys on Red Bull. I grind on top of you, gradually working that silly white apron up to your waist. I peel down those naughty laced panties of yours and begin pounding you into the sand, sans towel. Just when you’re about to climax, I’ll withdraw my Willy, swirl him about in the sand (a la chicken cutlet), and then reinsert.”
“Ouch.”
“You betcha.”
“Let me grab my purse.”

Wow. I just reread that and am convinced I need therapy. The normal reaction to Flo would be, “Aw, she’s so cute. What a snarky little sweetheart.” Still, I want to grab onto that bump-it and bang her in the bumper. Guess I should stay with Geico.

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