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The Bridges of King Gee County

by SHELL SHERREE

I love watching the ads on TV. Sometimes, I even squeeze in a little TV show on the side, ad breaks permitting. I appreciate truly great ads. And there are some around. Last night, I noticed King Gee's latest one. You can check it out here as long as King Gee doesn’t move it elsewhere.

Little Jimmy or Jimmette {in the interests of political correctness}, aren’t you happy that daddy is helping to build a whopping big bridge in his King Gee shorts instead of being a boring-as-batpoo memo-writing office worker or a fluoride-treated yawn of a dentist?

Your daddy has such an interesting job compared to these poor staid stereotypes, forced to wear business shirts or white coats at work then lie awake at night, longingly counting King Gee shorts leaping over a girder. Or bending over in front of the mirror each morning in their pyjama shorts, desperately wishing for a revealing inch or two of butt-crack that their sensible wash and wear business trousers are never going to provide.

Lucky Daddy!

Lucky you!

Because every time Daddy drives his family over the whopping massive bridge, he will tell you about his exploits in his King Gees. One girder at a time. Won’t that be riveting? But don’t say, “Gee, Daddy, that’s riveting,” or before you know it, he’ll slap his thigh just below his King Gee tan mark and expound the virtues of the rivets he drove into his girders. One. Rivet. At. A. Time.

And for the next ten, twenty, thirty years, you will wonder why every time you drive over a bridge - any bridge - you will want to scream, break off your cup holder and poke out your eardrums with the pointy bit.

But don’t bother with therapists. None of them will be able to help you figure it out. Because as soon as you start talking about bridges, they will start wistfully dreaming about having a King Gee-wearing father who was rugged enough to build them... and they, too, will wonder Why?

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