One of the truly remarkable things about our island is how nice people can be. I had the good fortune of meeting a couple who winters in lands far, far away and generously offered to let me house sit. So, for several months last winter, I could brag that my house didn’t have axles. However, you can imagine my outrage when I found out they had turned off the cable television. Yes, a whole beautiful house at my disposal without cable. That meant I would have to watch broadcast television like they did on the Mayflower.

Surprisingly, though, watching the tube by antenna brought back a wave of nostalgia. The first thing that harkened back to my youth was the inconsistent signal. Unfailingly, during a movie’s denouement, a character would say, “And the killer is…” just as the screen goes blank, only to return when the credits are rolling. I also got to see the once-sexy celebrities of my teenage years now selling hearing aids and adult diapers — the later product has apparently spawned a new profession called the “personal incontinence consultant,” probably the only job that won’t be lost to overseas labor.

Advertisers certainly have a specific demographic in mind for the cable-less. You won’t find a commercial for luxury cars or the latest fashions, but several times every hour you’ll see life-saving gizmos that notify paramedics at the press of a button. This is usually followed by a commercial for life insurance that you “cannot be turned down for.” Advertisements involving medicine make up a huge part of the hour: One half consists of miracle drugs that make your life wonderful. These segments are typically performed by cartoon characters of whichever organ is failing. The walking, talking small intestines are absolute nightmare fuel. The other half of the pitches involve non-attorney spokespersons yelling about how miracle drugs ruin your life, so, “Call now for the compensation you deserve!” Dealing with a shylock attorney is also nightmare fuel.

One thing that has never changed, however, is the multitude of wonder products that humanity simply cannot live without, promoted with incredibly cheesy acting. Take for instance the typical housewife that opens a drawer in her kitchen. She freaks out as if she has seen a walking, talking small intestine, but really it’s even worse. Her junk drawer is a chaotic disarray of batteries, tools, bobby pins and various geegaws. Clearly this will lead Mom to hard drinkin’ and a visit from CPS. Enter the “Tidy Master 3000” drawer organizer. Now, life for Mom is like a Norman Rockwell painting.

Then there are the sleep products. Buy one and you will sleep on perfectly ironed sheets with an actual smile on your face. Yet, everybody knows a good night’s sleep means waking up with drool on the pillow while lying sideways on the bed with one sock missing. I think the strangest product of all was something called Navage. The first time I saw it I had the TV on mute and assumed they were showing me the newest way to abuse alcohol. The product consisted of a container of fluid with two appendages that go into your nose. Now, almost nothing good comes from sticking things up your nose, but I was intrigued by a possible new way to consume booze. Turning the sound on, I learned that rather than gin or vodka, the fluid was plain old water. The idea was water comes out of the upper reservoir, into one nostril, up through your sinuses and brain, back out the other nostril and into the lower reservoir. I don’t know if it works or not, but I have a suggestion for the Navage makers: Make the lower reservoir opaque.

As daffy as these commercials can be, there is nothing like the power for repetition. I watched one ad so many times that now I am the proud owner of the Garden Weasel.

I don’t have a garden. I don’t even eat vegetables, but after hearing, ad-infinitum, how much better my life would be, I just had to buy one. I am still waiting for said better life. But in the spirit of reuse and repurpose, any home intruder will now get a Garden Weasel upside the head instead of a Tidy Master 3000. If that doesn’t work, they will get soaked with the lower reservoir of my Navage.

— This column is used with

permission from Chris Austin, an islander and award-winning

humor columnist.