Brawny

Gary wasn't afraid of anything.

Dark rooms, creaking closet doors, vaccination shots, timed multiplication tests - none of it bothered him. He checked for monsters under the bed and was disappointed to find only partnerless socks and dust. He took his time getting the winter jackets out from the crawlspace under the basement stairs, hoping he'd see something move out of the corner of his eye. He convinced his friends to play Ghost in the Graveyard in an actual graveyard.

Nothing scared Gary.

Except for one thing.

There was one thing that made him feel like a plug had been pulled out from the bottom of his stomach, filling him with a sick, swirling, slithery chill. It was something he never admitted to anyone. It was too embarrassing.

Gary was terrified - cold-sweat, buzzing-ears, teeth-tingling terrified - of the Brawny paper towel man.

For as long as he could remember, just a glimpse of that tanned, grinning torso turned Gary from a swaggering ball of energy into a huddled, shaking mess. There was something horrifying about the unnaturally broad shoulders, the eyes that didn't seem to really be focusing on anything, the white, white teeth that were just a little too big. It all added up into something that looked like a man, but which Gary was sure was only a thing. And he thought he could feel the baleful malevolence of the thing gazing at him through its dead, waxy man-mask.

As soon as he was old enough to stay home, Gary started refusing to go to the grocery store with his mom. He couldn't handle the paralyzing dread that dripped unrelentingly into his skin as they approached the paper-goods aisle. He hid in his room when she got home from the store, refusing to help her unload the groceries. She always grounded him for it, but anything was better than having to stow the paper towels in the darkness under the sink.

Once the wrapper was off, the paper towels didn't bother him. But Gary never took the last sheet off the roll.

He let someone else put a fresh one out.

Quicker Picker-Upper

I like to think that I'm immune to most advertisements. Usually, I can block out the near-constant bombardment of slogans, logos, jingles, and colors designed specifically to catch my eye and remind me to "Eat Fresh." Of course, this doesn't mean I don't notice them. There are some jingles that will live in my head forever. To this day, I cannot spell bologna without singing the Oscar Meyer song. What I mean is I don't really think they influence what I purchase all that much.

Except for one thing.

Bounty.

That's right. The only ad that worms its way into my brain and demands I purchase what it's selling is one for paper towel. It makes me believe, deep in my soul, that Bounty really is twice as durable as it's leading competitor, and is so strong, it can even be used when wet. What really gets me is those damn demonstrations. Seeing Bounty absorb all that weird blue liquid while the other, inferior, towel leaves behind smears it so compelling.

I know Bounty can't be trusted. I know other paper towels can probably perform as well or better. I know it's just part of grand marketing scheme designed to make me feel this way, but I don't care. Bounty is the only one for me.