I’m sitting in a bar and waiting for a friend who’s running late. On the TV overhead I watch some sort of sports show. A famous former heavyweight boxer grins before the camera with a jar of barbecue sauce in his hand. Apparently it’s his new signature sauce.
Another former boxing champion enters the screen to help promote the sauce. This guy spent a few years in prison for rape. His involvement is guaranteed to make the barbecue sauce a total hit with the ladies.
I watch the grinning pair and think about barbecue sauce. If I’m buying sauce, I want it to come from some unknown guy who spent his childhood in the backwoods of Mississippi slow-cooking beef briskets over a grill filled with cedar chips. I want him to have tinkered with a family recipe handed down to him from his father, who got it from his father’s father. I want his real name to be Skeeter or Cooter or something. I want the real deal.
What I don’t want is a sauce from a former millionaire who fell behind on car payments and then said “Crap, I need to find something to sell. Maybe I’ll have someone tweak Heinz 57 and then put my name on it.” Nope, I’m not buying a jar of Shot To The Head anytime soon, unless I need to unclog a toilet.
I don’t get why people buy celebrity-endorsed garbage. But then again I don’t understand why people follow celebrities in the first place.