Hi, I’m Meathead.  I’d like to talk for a minute about something very important.  I don’t know if you’ve ever watched TV, but if you have, you’ve probably seen at least one advertisement in which the person pitching the product and/or service claims to be mentally unsound.   Whether it’s mattresses, televisions, fireworks, eternal salvation, or mattresses, there’s always that one guy who tries to lure you away from the competition by acting like he’s still in Vietnam and there’s a pretty good chance you’re Charlie in disguise.  These shizophrenic salesmen range from the non-threatening “I’m so freakin’ nuts that I want to sell you this Blu-Ray player for a price that’s slightly less than you might find at, let’s say, Circuit City” to “I’m so fucking batshit insane that I want to slather my nude body in piping hot Miracle Whip and then stab you in the neck for no readily apparent reason, regardless of whether or not you buy this motherfucking Blu-Ray player, and if you get the extended warranty, I’ll chug this milk carton full of dog’s blood while masturbating at no extra charge”.  This guy, for instance, falls into the latter category:

Crazy Gideon is clearly unhinged, and he probably carries a gun.   But at least he comes right out and admits that he’s crazy.  Then again, don’t they say that if you think you’re crazy, then you’re really not?  Crazy Gideon probably wouldn’t sell as many flatscreens if he went by “Emotionally Stable Gideon” or “Gideon Who Has Never Strangled A Man To Death With His Bare Hands For Simply Clearing His Throat”.  I would imagine that a good number of these spokespersons are only faking it, their logic being that if they portray themselves as insane, this will make it seem as if they are easily duped into selling their wares at prices so low that they would actually lose money.  Sure, you might end up getting anally raped by a man in a Little Red Riding Hood costume, but if you can score a brand new Sirius radio system for only eighteen cents while you’re there, then who cares, right?  Bend over and take one for the team.

Personally, that’s not my thing.  I prefer XM radio.   Also, I prefer to purchase products from people who probably aren’t registered sex offenders.   Maybe that’s not so important to you, but it’s just something I feel rather strongly about.  And that’s why I never have nor will purchase anything from Billy Mays, who I’m pretty sure is not faking it.  I would bet large sums of money I don’t have that he has at least four or five dead kids buried underneath his basement.

Billy Mays has appeared on television pretty much every single day since the late 1940’s, at approximately 2:15 a.m., selling any and every product your feeble human mind can possibly comprehend, as well as several it can’t.  He’s sold citrus-based cleaning products, car wax, earrings, razors, earrings with razors on them, hand grenades, health insurance, and unflattering photos of your sister getting it on with the cast of According To Jim, and he’s done it all simply by yelling.  That’s all he does.  And if he doesn’t get what he wants, he’ll simply yell louder.  This guy manages to move products off shelves and into your closet by screaming at you until you finally give in and send him your credit card information just so he won’t break through your television, knock your teeth out and then touch your wife in a familiar manner.  Thankfully, thus far I’ve managed to grab the remote and frantically change the channel in a cold sweat before he got to me.  But I know someday he will.  I can’t hide from him forever.  He knows I’ve yet to purchase a lifetime supply of Easy Off Bam!, or the Samurai Shark knife sharpener, and it’s eating him up inside.  Sure, he may be smiling underneath that spray-on beard, but it’s not a “Hi, I like you, let’s eat some liverwurst and talk about our feelings” kind of smile, it’s more of a “Hi, I want to put my evil inside you with the Gopher reach extending tool” smile.  You know what I mean?  Can’t you see the hate in his eyes?  Look carefully:

I could be wrong, but I have a sneaking suspicion that Billy Mays may enjoy a little bit of the nose candy.   And when I say “a little bit”, I mean as in “Al Pacino snorted a little bit of coke in that scene from Scarface.”  And while most cokeheads I’ve encountered have had their lives pretty much ruined by the stuff, Billy Mays was lucky enough to land a job that asks for nothing more than to A) yell constantly, B) appear convincingly enthusiastic about things like car wax and lint brushes, and C) have a beard, or at least something that sort of resembles one when you squint.  In exchange, he receives vast sums of money.   Let’s be honest, has there ever been a position more perfectly tailored for a cocaine addict? It’s practically a job requirement.

It just kind of blows my mind that people actually say to themselves, “Well, I didn’t think I needed an electric sock straightener, but Holy Christ, this guy really looks like he believes in it, so let me just go ahead and charge four easy monthly payments of $19.95 to the ol’ MasterCard.”  Companies that invent useless shit hire Billy Mays because, somehow, he actually sells said useless shit.   I guess on some level I’m just jealous.  I wish I knew what his secret is.  Why I can’t I scream at people and make them give me money?  Then again, I’ve never tried drawing a beard on my face with a Sharpie.  Maybe that’s the trick.

Someday, in the relatively near future, Billy Mays will start his own suicide cult.   Seriously, I’m not kidding.  I am absolutely certain of this.  All he has to do is say “Hi, Billy Mays here for the Billy Mays Death Cult.  Have you always wanted to know what it’s like on the other side?  Well now you can!”  Then, about five days later, it’ll be all over CNN.  I mean, honestly, what does he have to lose?  He obviously has no soul.  And when it finally happens, you can say you heard it here first.  Thankfully, Zorbeez absorbent towels can handle any mess, even copious amounts of blood!  Then just pour on some Orange Glo and you’re good to go.

To help make this blog post somewhat pertinent to the topic of music, and therefore justify its existence on Buddyhead.com, here is a picture of Jim Nabors:

Punk is fuckin’ dead. Capitalism is hip. Buy a Cadillac, pop a bottle of Krug (Cristal is for peasants), eat a piece of apple pie, feel free to rock an “I Love America” T-shirt! Money! Whoo! Shit’s important! Hey man, you can’t pay your landlord with Donruss Darryl Strawberry rookie cards forever. Wanna know what punk means today? It means being smart enough to take stock options at your job when applicable! There’s no pride in poverty. Just ask Travis. The Dead Kennedys are fuckin’ dead (I heard the lead singer, like, sold his first name to a gelatin company, cashed out, and that’s why the band broke up). The Sex Pistols were poseurs, marionettes for Malcolm McLaren’s joke—they were his idea of fashion. Iggy Pop has done tracks with Sum 41 since Fun House. The only person more punk than O.G. Johnny Cash performing at Folsom is this crazy masseur chick (see below) who took a job at Google seven years ago as an office masseuse and cashed out last week as a multi-millionaire. That’s right, homies.

Photo Credit: Misha Erwitt for The New York Times

Bonnie Brown of San Fransisco originally applied for the job back in 1999 when Google had only 40 employees. Her initial take home pay was a meager $450/week. Guess who’s laughing now? She cashed out last week as the Google stock reached an all-time high of $700 a share. This chick could buy and sell Billy Corgan. She could hire The Gypsy Kings to play her kid’s Quinciñera fourteen times over and still have some cash to buy records.

Bonnie is in the middle of publishing her novel, “Giggle: How I got Lucky Massaging Google.” Pretty smart lady, huh? This woman is retiring her hands (wonder if her job description included HJ’s?) for good. Now she’ll be the one being pampered. According to The New York Times, “it is estimated that 1,000 people each have more than $5 million worth of Google shares from stock grants and stock options.” Damn, I wish I had jumped on that train instead of hitting Taco Bell/Val Surf the afternoon the IPO was raffled off to regular schmucks like you and I, Lotto style.

Anyway…keep your ears to the streets and your eyes on the tech stocks if you’re thinking about investing. Apple, Inc. (AAPL) is a sure bet. They’ve got a hold on everything: music, movies, ringtones, cell-phones, and the new Leopard OS makes Microsoft Vista look like Sega Genesis. Think of how many assholes buy a song on iTunes in a day…do the math…it’s insane. Although Apple’s price per share is expensive as fuck (even after crashing 20 points this past week it’s at a whopping $165.37), there is never a better time to buy then now. You’re almost guaranteed to make money—no matter how much you invest. Start small. 100 shares will do your pocketbook just fine. As I said before, making money is punk. How else are you going to fund your fervor for screw-in spikes, Deicide back-patches, and rhinestone belts? Who knew dressing so homeless could be so expensive?

(Look at Mike Douglas in Wall Street. What a badass. Even he’s punk)

Another tip: Research In Motion—RIMM—the company that makes your mobile Pinkberry device run flawlessly was also at an all time high—with a price per share of $134.7—before it came crashing down with the rest of the NASDAQ this past Friday. My advice to you: buy RIMM and AAPL before Christmas while they’re currently down from yearly highs, right before all the new shiny gadgets and gizmos come out for the holiday season. Think about how many assholes you see sporting iPhones and Blackberrys PER DAY. Again, do the math in your head. It’s baffling. All cell-phones are going the way of the PDA, iPhone and Blackberry in particular.

One thing’s for sure: if Johnny Cash were a stock, I guarantee you he’d be Google. Or he’d at least invest in a few mutual funds. Be smart. Be punk. You owe it to yourself to heed my advice: Apple and Research In Motion—BUY! Wu-Tang Clan said it best, “Cash Rules Everything Around Me.”