I, Peter from the old Folger’s Christmas commercial challenge you, Peter from the new Folger’s Christmas commercial to a deathmatch. Listen man, I have not been doing so well. Sure, when you last saw me flouncing out of that VW bug Christmas ’86, I was on top of the world. Life stretched out before me like that gymnast sorority sister who’d given me a ride that morning. It’s hard to imagine how drastically things have changed since then, but life’s not all cable-knit sweaters and varsity letters, my man.
Throughout the rest of the ‘80s, I developed a caffeine addiction as remarkably robust as the very Folger’s I was drinking. I have some regrets, sure; one of which being my altercation with a two-faced barista in Santa Monica that led to me hitting rock bottom for the first time. I also made some bad choices in the ‘90s concerning investments in Freezy Freakies. Who could have known the market for those gloves wouldn’t last forever? I guess I just got caught up in the après-ski scene.
My parents aren’t so jazzed to see me walk in the door at 5:00 a.m. anymore, especially now that I live with them in their unfinished basement. I mainly get by as an SAT tutor, ever since that jerk at Friendly’s fired me for being an artisan. Apparently, my understanding of their “create your own meal” slogan turned out to be merely an interpretation. However, I stand by that interpretation. If a customer wants two Fribbles and a Clamboat, that’s what I’m bringing them, until the day I die, or the Clamboat is discontinued!
Anyway, now that Friendly’s is out of the picture, all I’m left with is the SAT tutoring. And I’m not even with Kaplan! Sorry my 1440 isn’t good enough for you, Kaplan! December is the tutoring dry season. You know what else December is? That’s right, the mother-f’ing Christmas season. Let me tell you buddy, the best part of waking up is definitely not seeing your blond delicately-goateed face on my television every fifteen minutes.
This brings me back to my original premise. Peter of the new Folger’s Christmas commercial: I am going to fight you to the death. You’re destroying the integrity of my original masterpiece with your schlocky second-rate rendition. You’re the generic cereal to my Cinnamon Toast Crunch. You’re every Americanized British sitcom, no worse, you’re The Sopranos on A&E. You must be stopped. I’m going to break my festive holiday mug over that ridiculous toque if it’s the last thing I do.
I cannot spend one more day watching you return from West Africa to the eerily loving arms of your eager sister. Why do I get the feeling you took baths together until a borderline inappropriate age? Oh I’m sorry, does that make you mad? Well let’s go buddy! I’m back on the caffeine and ready to battle—Peter on Peter!
You think you can replace me just because we have the same name? Don’t you remember what happened to New Coke? You can’t replace the original formula. Is that reference lost on you because you are basically a newborn? Try this one then, I’m Beyoncé, asshole: friggin’ irreplaceable.