Another B.M. flushed

Unfortunately, I'm talking about Billy Mays, who joined Ed McMahon, Farrah Fawcett, and Michael Jackson in the ranks of this month's iconic deaths (or as some have theorized, time-space extractions). I'm not surprised my pal Kevin (see link, and then read through his archives) beat me to the punch in blogumenting the tragedy of Mays' death, a) because Kevin types faster than me, and b) because he shares my reverence for ole bearded Billy. And while the bathroom themed pun-of-a-post-title may feel like a flippant remark, it is my hope that B.M. will smile when he reads it (or at least hears about it from M.J.).

The story of how I came to know and adore Billy Mays starts back in 6th grade, right around the age when I started agonizing over girls. The then popular boys seemed to have no problem talking to females, specifically the females I wanted to talk to. A mouth full of braces and a pronounced (these days, distinguished) widow's peak didn't help my chances of landing that special classmate, but I was determined. I began spending weekend nights on the couch, in front of the television, learning the tricks of the trade from Blind Date and The Fifth Wheel. For those of you who don't know, these shows epitomize what it means to promote bad dating practices, but I only know this now, like you, as a feature of dramatic irony. I would have watched programs of a higher caliber, but to this day my parents have never thrown down for cable. So, I worked with what I had, learning what I could. Staying up into the night, my eleven year old self watched hours of local dating shows, always striving to get the girl. Until one day, I realized These losers never get the girl; what am I thinking? And that's when I flipped the channel.

Unbeknownst to him, Billy taught me everything I know about confidence, articulation, and how to grow a bad ass beard. I spent Saturday night after Saturday night watching infomercials for Oxi clean, Orange glo, Kaboom!, and countless other products. Mays made me want to buy every single one, and if I weren't eleven years old, I probably would have. More than that, seventh grade came around and I had my first kiss. If that's not living proof of Billy Mays' pitching prowess, I don't know what is.

Billy Mays was a great man and a great celebrity. Figures in the public eye often slip up (holding babies outside of windows, eating hamburgers off bathroom floors), but not Mays. His reputation remains as pristine as his kitchen, bathroom, and laundry. So thanks Billy; you will always occupy a special place in my heart.

*Photos by Nevada Tumbleweed & azrainman