A day in the life of someone in those Smirnoff Ice Commercials

I am assuming you have seen these on television.

If not, you are missing out.

And again.

This is how I picture a sequence of days for the typical Smirnoff Ice drinker, according to the commercials.

Smirnoff Guy: (cracks open a Smirnoff Ice after rolling out of bed.)

Smirnoff Girl: I'm having so much fun because we had an excellent night of sexual relations last night. Thanks to Smirnoff Ice. Which you are drinking. At 8 in the morning.

Smirnoff Guy: If by "Sexual Relations," you mean we painted a random warehouse purple and wore light fixtures on our heads while dancing around in a rave-like fashion...yes our sexual relations were enjoyable.

Smirnoff Guy 2: (Walks into the bedroom) Hey guys...say...don't you think it's weird we had the money to buy that entire warehouse, and several gallons of purple paint...just to throw a makeshift Rave with enough Smirnoff Ice to quench the thirst of a thousand Alcoholics Anonymous members?

Girl: Well...I never thought of it that way. The 37 un-used fire extinguishers sure were convenient though.

Guy 1: I am just glad we are good enough friends with 75 people to invite them to our random warehouse rave. With alot of purple paint.

Girl: I can't believe I was there.

Guy 2: Alright guys, good talk, but I have to go to work now.

Guy 1: WORK!? What do you mean WORK!?

Guy 2: It's the place I go to make money. To pay off these ridiculous random parties we keep throwing.

Guy 1: What do you mean!? We drink SMIRNOFF ICE. When you drink smirnoff Ice, you don't work. You find empty pools on the top of buildings that you fill with used mattresses and cube-shaped foam pads.

Girl: Then you invite 130 of your closest, 23 year-old attractive looking male and female friends, and you jump into the pool over and over, doing various tricks, like backflips and corkscrews.

Guy 1: Don't forget the woodchipper that we own, and the fact that there will be NO problems with security, or the tedious task of carrying used cushions and foam pads up several flights of stairs.

Guy 2: It's like you guys think of this shit on your couch...sitting on your ASS all day, drinking Smirnoff Ice, then you just go and do it. Like it's that easy.

Guy 1: One minute we were sitting on the couch talking about it.

Girl: Then all of a sudden....it was insane. We Were There. (Trademark.)

Guy 2: Did you just say trademark?

Guy 1: I am so glad I have such a mass quantity of friends, who are racially diverse and all very attractive people, because racially predictable ugly people do NOT drink Smirnoff Ice.

Girl: I cannot wait to fill a vacant pool on a rooftop with foam and jump in it. Then I will probably have sex with alot of men, because Smirnoff Ice makes my Panties Drop.

Guy 2: Nothing makes your panties drop. You are the only one who makes your panties drop. Because you are a slut.

Guy 1: That's my girl. Now let's go get our woodchipper and pillows.

Girl: I love Smirnoff.

(Next Morning)

Guy 2: I am never drinking Smirnoff Ice again. My neck hurts from doing various acrobatic moves onto piles of foam, and I got fired from my job because all I do is drink Smirnoff Ice and plan parties that are ridiculously un-realistic.

Guy 1: Dude, chill out. I have this great idea for tonight.

Guy 2: You know what? No. I don't care how cool it is. I don't care how awesome your idea is. I don't care if it's "Insane," or "You can't believe you were there," all of these slogans are getting on my NERVES. You need to grow up.

Guy 1: But dude...I promise you. This is gonna be INSANE. And you're going to BE THERE.

Guy 2: No. I don't care if you find a random hill, wheelbarrows full of ice to keep our Smirnoff's cold, a 100 yard roll of plastic sheet, and sprinklers that go off at 10:30 every night.

Girl: What if we invite 46 of our best-looking, culturally diverse, physically fit 23 year old friends?

Guy 2: I don't even HAVE 23 friends. I don't even know where the hell you find all these people. I don't even care if you make the worlds greatest SLIP N SLIDE in the sweltering summer night heat. I have to wake up early to get the JOB that I LOST because of these outrageous PARTIES.

Girl: I know. It's insane. We were THERE.

Guy 1: Wait...did you just say SLIP N SLIDE!? DUDE!!! That's just what I was thinking! It's HOT.

Girl: It was hot. We had to do something. We're gonna do WHAT!? It was Crazy. And we were THERE.

Guy 2: Smirnoff Girl...you are consistently speaking in the incorrect tense, and I would appreciate it if something came out of your mouth that was NOT a slogan for Smirnoff Ice.

Girl: Sex.

Guy 2: I can't take you people anymore. I'm going to start drinking Bud-Light Lime so I can listen to MIA and get a Summer State Of Mind just to spite you guys.

Girl: Drinkability.

Guy 1: It's not summer until you bring out the Bud Light Lime.

Conversations Between Hot Treadmill Girls and Buff Guys as Imagined by the Average Person in the Gym.

Buff Guy: I'm not even wearing this spaghetti-strap tank top to get looks from those hot girls on the treadmills. I'm wearing it for comfort purposes. I feel so free in it, you know?



Buff Guy 2: No. I have no idea what you are talking about, because I find any clothing to be ridiculously uncomfortable, and I just want to be naked all the time. I want to do curls all the time, naked. I want to do naked curls.



Treadmill Girl 1: Those buff guys are so hott. I say it with 2 t's to emphasize how hot they are and how much sex I want to have with them. Seeing their biceps makes me want to have alot of sex with them. All of the buff men.



Treadmill Girl 2: I love buff men.



Treadmill Girl 3: Buff men are hot and I want to have sex with them.



Treadmill Girl 2: Hey look at that buff guy wearing his shirt. What does it say?



Treadmill Girl 1: I can't read, which makes me attractive to buff guys.



Treadmill Girl 3: I love that buff man because he is wearing a shirt that says, "No, I'm not on steroids, but thanks for asking."



Treadmill Girl 1: That's so cool. I was actually thinking about asking him if he is on 'roids. But now I don't have to, because his shirt answered the question that I never actually asked.



Treadmill Girl 3: That's so sweet of him. I want him to "bench-press" me.



Treadmill Girl 2: I hope the buff men stare at me alot and like the way my butt looks when I run.



Buff Guy 1: I like staring at Treadmill Girl when she runs because I like the way her butt looks. Now watch my bicep when I lift heavy weights. Now watch me grunt.



Buff Guy 2: AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGGGGGGHHHHH. Oh....OH YEAH!



Treadmill Girl 3: I love when the men with big muscles lift large weights and grunt loudly so everyone in the gym looks at them and thinks about how much sex they want to have with them. I want to have so much sex with the men with big muscles.



Buff Guy 1: I am going to wipe my sweat off of my brow in front of the mirror to expose my 6-pack so the treadmill girls want to have sex with me.



Treadmill Girl 1: I love when he pulls his spaghetti strap shirt up so I can see his stomach, which I want to have sex with.



Treadmill Girl 2: Oh look, they are lifting heavy weights and grunting! Let's watch.



Treadmill Girls: (Watching attentively.)



Buff Guy 2: I love lifting large amounts of weight. The hot girls at the cardio-machines love it also. AAAAAAAAAAAARRRGGGGH...OH YEAH!



Treadmill Girl 3: I really wish they would flex their muscles and pose in front of the mirror.



Treadmill Girl 2: I wish the buff men would kiss their arm muscles, then blow kisses to themself in the mirror, whilst simultaneously flexing.



Buff Guy 1: Did treadmill girl 2 just say "Whilst?"



Buff Guy 2: (Flexing in the mirror and kissing his bicep.)



Treadmill Girl 1: I hope they go tanning on a frequent basis, then come over here and say things to us, like "Nice Ass," and then give us pointless unsolicited advice on how we have improper form on our lifts, because we are women, and we are incapable of understanding the basic principles of fundamental resistance training.



Treadmill Girl 1&2: (Silence)



Treadmill Girl 1: I apologize for using big words. How unattractive of me. I should go ask that strong man what a "bench-press," is.



Buff Guys: (Saying at the exact same time): I hate girls who can read.



Treadmill Girl 2: I like to stare at this Cosmo mag while I run, because the way the letters are arranged look like puzzles, or a maze, and I like to run my finger through it.



Treadmill Girl 3: I like that too, but not as much as I like thinking about having sex with those hott strong men.



Buff Guy 2: I love when the hot treadmill girls think about having sex with me. The more weight I lift, the more badly they want to have sex with me.



Buff Guy 1: Are you on steiroids?



Treadmill Girl 1: Steiroids are attractive to me. I love steiroids. What's a benchpress?



Buff Guy 2: I'm going to go up to buff guy 3, and punch him and ask him how he's doing. After that, I am going to start humping him, in a mocking fashion, and stick my tongue out to the hot treadmill girls.



Treadmill Girl 3: Is that strong man making a sexual gesture with his hips? Why yes he is. How attractive.



Treadmill Girl 1: When he sticks his tongue out, it makes me fantasize sexually about him having sex with me. Sexually.



Treadmill Girl 2: The only reason I come to the gym is to watch these strong men lift weights. I don't care about my personal fitness. All I want to do is stare at their muscles.



Treadmill Girl 3: I don't find it weird, or off-putting when they blatently stare at our chests bouncing, and start drooling when we begin to sweat. It is my favorite thing that I like the most in the world.



Treadmill Girl 1 and 2: Let's go get a drink of water, and bend over so the muscle men interpret it as a sexual invitation, and hope they say something offensive when we are hydrating our bodies.



Buff Guy 1: Nice ass.



Buff Guy 2: Get some water for those tit-ay's too



(Buff Guy's High Five)



Treadmill Girl 1: Thank you. What is a "Bench-Press?"



Treadmill Girl 2: Will you curl me?



Treadmill Girl 3: My ass is good.

True Life: I Am A Door To Door Marketer.

As I walked up the spiraling driveway, tapping my toes with precise delicacy to not make the dogs bark louder than they normally do, I started thinking about how badly my job sucks.

Then, I put my best foot forward, which is evidently ALWAYS the right one, because right is correct. I whispered to myself over and over again my script that I have PERFECTED. So far...it hasn't got me anywhere, but damn do I sound good.

"Hi, my name is Sean from College Works painting, how are you doing?"

"We are in the neighborhood offering free estimates, and I was wondering if you are looking to get any exterior work done."

"Why are you holding a gun?"

"Are you drooling?"

"I noticed you are stepping toward me in an angry fashion."

"Oh god. Will you please just take this flyer?"

"Ouch. Oh well, I never liked my right arm anyway. Have a nice day."

Before I could get to "arm," an attractive woman opens her door to see a 6'7 kid with a peculiarly shaved head, and a way-too-tightly fitting Sherwin Williams t-shirt.

As you might imagine, it was an extremely awkward encounter, and I tried to raise the awkwardness by letting out an uncomfortable laugh, like I do in most strange social situations.

Then me and the attractive woman did that thing where you move to your right, she moves to her left, you move to your left, she moves to her right, and you seem to dance in an intertwined inconvenience for what feels like 30 seconds, but is more like 3. Possibly the most flawed social encounter mechanism in the history of human civilization. At least I didn't headbutt her.

"How may I help you?"

"Hi. I'm Sean from College Works Painti--"

"We just got our house painted. Thanks."

She continues walking around the corner, and I glance back as I walk away shamefully to see her in her boyfriends python-arms that could suffocate my very existance in a matter of seconds.

He has several tattoo's, a boat with a wakeboard tower, and I have 300 flyers, and a Sherwin Williams T-shirt. With a hat to match.

As I heard the laughter in the distance, I tripped on a pebble, inviting more laughter and went on to drop alot of flyers and get really used to the phrase "No thanks, please never come back. Ever."

Onto the next house. I am hardly optimistic.

But this one seemed different. It seemed promising. Fading trim? Check. Car in the driveway? Check. No animals that want to take my head off? Check. No NRA sign on the front of the house? Check.

I knock my customary 4 times. At this point, I have it down to a science, really. It's 4 quick knocks, purposeful, but not overly agressive, demanding...but inviting. It's my fingers way of saying, "Hey...hear me out real quick. And let me paint your house. Thanks."

No answer. Surely they heard me. Right?

I try the fool-proof-4-knocks again. Nothing.

Then I hear some tiny footsteps approaching the front door.

Clank-clank-clank, it's a Black Lab...looks to be about 9 or 10 years old.

It's deep brown eyes peer into mine, looking as disappointed as I was. I thought the dog was the promising home-owner. He thought I was his owner. I was a door-to-door marketer, and he was a Black Lab.

In a delirious state of frusturation, I started giving my sales pitch to the Black Lab.

"Hey, I know you are a dog and all, but your fur looks like it's fading, and the trim on this house sucks. Let's be real. I'll dye your hair and paint your trim for 300 bucks."

"NO I will not give you a BATH."

"No. Playing fetch is not part of the contract. Besides, aren't you a bit old for that?"

I could tell by it's eyes that he thought I was crazy. Or maybe he really wanted to play fetch.

"I know bud, I'm disappointed too. I'll leave you this flyer so you can call me sometime if you wanna hang out."

Then I started barking and scratching the front door in a feeble attempt to get the home-owners attention. Instead, the neighbors looked at me weird and said they would call the police if I pee on the firehydrant in front of their lawn again.

To that...I said RAWRF!

They say after tasting defeat so many times, success tastes a little sweeter.

Or maybe they say after tasting defeat so many times, success has a lingering taste of failure, so no matter how decodent the meal you are enjoying, it will always have a slight hint of SHIT, even if it is Calimari at a gourmet restaurant, which may or may not taste like feces regardless.

Anyway, 3 houses later I came to the front door of a nice looking house that had a really inviting sign posted on the front door. Some people have little catch phrases that say "God Bless This Home," or "Please Take Off Your Shoes," or "Welcome."

Instead, this house said, "If we do not know you, or you haven't been invited, you have 20 seconds to leave, or take the consequences."

After I wiped the piss from my left thigh, I started to wonder what these consequences are, while simultaneously counting down from 20 to see if these people were for real. I got to 17 before I heard an intimidating grunt from the other side of the door, and then a high pitched scream that made me want to run in a bush and never say the word "house-paint," again.

I made my way out of there as fast as I could, screaming, "YOUR TRIM COULD USE SOME WORK...AND YOUR DECK NEEDS TO BE RE-STAINED."

4 missed gunshots and 3 houses later, a nice middle aged man opened his door with a welcoming smile, and no handguns or intimidating notes in sight.

I gave him my speech that has garnered zero dollars so far, and after everything I said, he said "yeah."

He was increadibly agreeable, and an easy sell who ended up agreeing to a free estimate, which is the ultimate goal, and I walked away with a genuine sense of accomplishment and no apparent gun-shot-wounds.

Success was tasted, and devoured. Even though there was an aftertaste of dog-bone, and a hint of "NO TRESPASSING...OR ELSE," it was still sweet, sweet nectar.