Fiction: A perfect photogenic happy family sits around a kitchen table enjoying a rare treat.
Reality: A wheezing sweating overweight middle aged man With Bucket of KFC in arm. Cut to inside. He falls into a dirty warped armchair and wolfs down the KFC as fast as humanly possible, occasionally wiping the grease from his lower face on his pullover sleave. He finishes the meal feeling bloated, and hungrier than before.
Fiction: Cool, suave Gents. Sat in leather armchairs at the side of a scotish tranquil lake. Glass of whisky in hand.
Reality: Unwashed overweight man sprawled out on a bed surrounded by empty fast-food wrappers and discarded clothing. Very dirty glass on a table next to the bed (Glass hasn’t been washed for a week, meaning seven seperate nights of grime from fast-food greased lips covering the rim) half full of Whiskey. The bottle is nearly empty. There’s also an equally dirty pint glass of stale flat beer. Cut to a few hours later - man wakes up, downs the whiskey, then the beer (with a shudder due to its flatness and staleness) and then falls straight back ‘asleep’. Cut to the morning - sunlight beaming through the window, man on bed in exactly the same position he fell when he downed the beer, his head is lying in puke.
OK so I got a bit carried away with that one.
Uh, your version is as fictional as the advert version, in most cases. The reality would be much more mundane.
Reality: KFC bucket is plopped down on the coffee table, because it’s the middle of the week, and both the husband and the wife were too busy to make dinner, and besides, The Office is coming on, so let’s just have dinner on the couch tonight. There are repeated attempts by the cat to investigate the bucket of chicken. Neither person is especially miserable, overweight, or sweaty. The furniture is neither old and warped nor new and perfect.
Reality: They have a (clean) glass of scotch after dinner.
Period.
For God’s sake, not everyone is Charles Bukowski, any more than they are Ward Cleaver.
OK so maybe reality is usually not as I describe. But it sometimes is. My point being that there are very dark sides to junk food and alcohol. And it suits society/advertisers down to a tee. Can’t get enough of their alcoholics and over-eaters.
Fiction: Handsome, gray-ish haired smiling gent and his good lookin’ significant other dance a mean tango in their expensive glass-walled house; jump on a motorcycle and take off to a desert retreat; sit in their very own separate bathtubs (!) - outside (!) - watching the sunset while they hold hands. They’re both grinning ear to ear because he gulped down a Viagara and they’re waiting eagerly for it to kick in…
Reality: oh, it’s too depressing to even contemplate. I’ll bet only one of them is grinning, though.
Fiction: Kid spills fruit punch or grape juice on the white carpet (always white or light-colored) and feels bad about it. Mom comes to the rescue with the paper towels and stain remover and assures her little munchkin that any and all evidence of his carelessness will be erased from existence. She happily takes care of the offending matter and Billy can go back to watching cartoons/playing video games as if nothing ever happened.
Reality: Mom freaks out and scolds Billy and grumbles as she has to clean up after him again.
Fiction: Elderly couples talk at length about life insurance while the partner listens attentively and offers additional information.
Reality: They might talk about it briefly, but I can’t imagine that it would be the engaging and detailed topic of discussion that takes place at the breakfast table.
Fiction: Sports car drives on winding mountain road and is the only car on the road.
Reality: Sports car idles in stopped freeway traffic, never gets out of second gear when driving in city due to numerous red lights and speed limits, often spends rural driving time behind slow RVs it cannot pass on winding mountain roads.
fiction: Attractive single person (possibly with a cat) removes a frozen low-cal dinner from freezer. Microwaves the dinner. Arranges everything attractively on family heirloom china and garnishes with a lemon wedge and two attractively-arranged sprigs of parsley.
reality: Single person of undetermined attractiveness grabs frozen low-cal dinner from freezer. Takes one look at preparation instructions and scoffs at how complex they are (Remove sauce pouch from corn; place in cup of 110degree water; remove chicken strips from their compartment; microwave remainder of meal on high for 1 minute, then on 50% for 2 minutes; replace chicken strips; re-cover, place back in microwave at full power for 2 minutes or until chicken strips reach an internal temperature of 165degrees as recorded by kitchen thermometer; remove wrapper; stir butter sauce into corn and serve). Throws whole damned thing in trash and calls Pizza Hut.
Fiction: Rugged but amazingly well groomed men are camping near a river. The Swedish Bikini team brings them beer and stays to party and sex them up.
Reality: Guys do not fuss much about grooming, bring their own beer on the camping trip, women are not invited nor do any appear. Guys drink beer and fart.
Fiction: Group of attractive, early-twenties friends are having a great time pooling all their pocket change so they can buy everything from the delicious Value Menu at Taco Bell. Youths orgasmically eat their food in their late-model convertibles.
Fact: Group of acned stoners get the munchies and raid the seat cusions of the beer-stained and cigarette-burned couch for loose change. They drive their 1987 Toyota Tercel to the local Taco Bell, the only thing open at one in the morning in rural Missouri.
Fiction: Late-night singles party lines hook attractive men up with models who are at home and bored on a Saturday night.
Fact: You know, if you really think the fiction is true, then you deserve to pay $4.99 a minute plus long distance charges.
Fiction: Yuppie looking sweatered couple look down at a plastic stick, then sigh and stare adoringly into each other’s eyes.
Reality: Rabid wolverine kicks down bathroom door from the inside, brandishing plastic stick that flings drops of urine at me while screaming “This says I’m PREGNANT!!!”
