Inevitably, we all suffer from butt wiping; it is the one private daily activity of the day we all share, a “common denominator” of being human. And we rarely talk about butt wiping, it’s just one of those things you do because, well, you should.

Our ancestors used leaves and slaves. Our more recent ancestors created rolls of soft tushy paper. And now, we’ve detached ourselves further from this disgusting, obsene practice of getting near our rears with the Comfort Wipe.

Yes, the comfort wipe. It’s sort of like a toilet bowl cleaner, but adds an extra 18 inches of butt-wiping reach.

Touted as “The best improvement of toilet paper as we know it since the 1880′s”, the comfort wipe is for these trend-setters in the butt wiping world: hot blondes too hot for poop, middle aged folks who appear to have random crippling shoulder pain, and the morbidly obese who can’t reach their own butt.

“Toilet paper is archaic and disgusting,” she says. As disgusting as re-using a plastic butt-wiping tool every time you go? I prefer the dirty stuff to go directly into the toilet, thank you very much.

“Being a big guy certainly has its advantages and its disadvantages”. Yes, there are definitely advantages to not being able to reach your anus. And the comfort wipe certainly attracts hot blondes!

(By the way, here’s a tip to stay clean after touching dirty toilet paper: Clean your hands.)

Radioactive products in the 1940s and 1950s were considered modern, powerful, wave-of-the-future type goods.  They were used in creams, pills, toys, clocks, water, fertility products, and suppositories.  Even more amusing was that there were all sorts of radioactive products at the time.  Here are some more popular radioactive products.

What did you expect to pay for all the Windows features?  $500?  $1000?  NO!!!! Just $99 dollars and it can all be YOURS!….. except in Nebraska.  Not sure why not.  I’ll give Steve a call tonight and ask him.

This brings us to today’s horror story, where a somewhat misogynistic husband is thoroughly peeved at being served a cup of crap coffee.  This coffee is so bad that he takes it personally, explaining to his wife that the girls working in the office can make a better cup on hotplates.  A crappy housewife you are, indeed.  He spits his insults in her face and leaves without kissing her goodbye.  Shame be to you.  SHAME.  Time to drink coffee with the girls in the office.

Without serving a decent cup of coffee, there’s no way to relax.  The greatest fear of housewives everywhere is not providing a good cup of coffee for her husband.  You know, ruining the morning and all.  Our housewife talks with her friend, who explains that Folgers Instant coffee is just as good as “Fresh Perked” coffee.

We see our next housewife trying to appease her husband with coffee.  He refuses to utter a word to her in disdain for this horrible tasting brew.  Of course, the answer is Instant Folgers coffee.

Instant Coffee means Instant Marital Aid.

So, this leads us to the crying Indian.   The crying Indian wasn’t actually Native American at all, in fact, he was an Italian actor that went by the name “Iron Eyes Cody”.  In the 1970′s he appeared in a few anti-littering advertisements, some of the first ones as American consumers started to feel guilty about over-consumption and wastefulness.  In hindsight, perhaps this is an example of how advertising doesn’t work, hm?

This public service announcement begins as Iron Eyes rows his classic canoe onto the beach shore to find it littered by a bunch of dirty, parasitic Americans.  It’s filled with burger wrappers, drink containers, and the like.  He steps over the rubble and somehow ends up at the side of the highway.  Why he rowed to the side of the highway really isn’t our business, I mean, this is Iron Eyes Cody after all.

American consumers, however, not only lack respect for the land, but they also lack respect for people dressed in full costume on the side of the road.  A sloppy, indifferent driver chucks their leftover fast food at him, ruining his moccasins. Shamed and hurt, Iron Eyes sheds a single tear.

“People start pollution, people can stop it.”

Here is a classic, original photo of Iron Eyes Cody from Mr. Girvan (Butch) Brown (Reliability Serviceman and Safety Chairperson). Thanks to Butch for sending us this unique photo of this retro icon of television’s past. The best guess is the others in the photo are TV or movie producers.

This commercial is completely absurd.  I still guffaw every time it ends.  What exactly is the message here?  Drug dealers are reptilians in disguise as humans?

YESSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSSS!

If you were born in the 80′s like me, you know, the time when Cigarettes have always been bad for you, seeing things like this make you gawk.  Originally presented in 1948, it shows that Big Tobacco has spared no expense and no ends to market their products on television.

An overly-excited grandma springs up at the suggestion of playing Berserk, hopping up and racing off without Grandson to the video arcade. Grandson reminds her that she can now play Berserk at home, something she’s either forgotten about and the look on her face explains it all.

Grandma and son role-play a four-limbed pixel block shooting pixels at other four-limbed pixel blocks – “Take THAT turkey!”

Grandma is also well-practiced.  She has spent many a quarter at the video arcade brushing up on her Berserk skills.  She stomps her grandson for the high score.

Kids need the challenge, right, Grandma?

In this piece of video game commercial history, a family of yuppies happily cruise through suburbia on their Sunday drive when father is called a “Jerk” by an indescript heckler.  Of course, he is a corporate executive, so it’s to be expected to look like a jerk and expected to by smug about it.  Father is a complete douchebag, first for taking his family for a drive around Suburbia, but secondly for wearing a shirt, vest, and bowtie that clearly don’t match.

The punishment for being a real jerk?  Your family is forced into suicidal racing slavery in POLE POSITION!

The hand of God shakes them from their car and forces these yuppies into a death race while rocking out to “Pole Position” (the song).  This level of hell, maybe the 3rd or 4th level of hell, forces man, wife, and children to drive at full speed as they crash and burn along the way.  Towards the end, something indescribable happens to Mother, who bellows a bloodcurling scream before colliding with another car in her last moments.

Then God (the announcer, or whoever) reminds us that Pole Position will leave skid marks on your soul.