"... and get your Gatti's pizza--"

And why I'm a slave to the international consumerist conspiracy

There are certain questions that have obvious answers. Of course, I'd like a cupcake. Of course, I'd like a cold PBR. Of course, I'd like to go to the Astros game with you.

And of course, I'd like to sing the jingle in a Mr. Gatti's commercial.

Until I ran into her at Kathryn's birthday party, I hadn't seen my friend Lauren since probably ninth grade. We had a lot to catch up on, such as how each other's Y2K celebrations were, and how things had been since we'd gotten our drivers licenses. So we made plans to meet up at Jo's Coffee Shop on Congress the next day to fill each other in. Not 20 minutes after I showed up, we were approached by a four-person camera crew, who took one look at the two of us and thought to themselves, "These are the exact types of people we want to help us sell Gatti's pizza."

Obviously, though, they didn't think too highly of our ability to sell. Lauren's lines were cut to "twenty-two, twenty-two," while mine got cut short by, as John put it, "the rappers." And the only person whose entire rendition of the song surived edit in its entirety -- the guy with the Mexican flag guitar at the end -- is maybe the biggest douche bag in the state of Texas, "right now, riiight nowww."

But whatever. I'll take it, man. I'd never been on a commercial before. I'd gotten some face time on Charlottesville local news a couple of times, and was on CNN International shaking hands with George Bush in Tanzania, but certainly no one had ever asked me to sing for them on camera. Naturally, I was stoked on popping that cherry. I can't tell you how many calls/text messages/Facebook posts I got about it, with most stories following a similar line: "Dude! I was at this bar with my friends, and all of the sudden I was like 'Dude! I know that guy!'..."

Clearly, I'm going to tell everyone I know about it. Being in a Gatti's commercial is the greatest thing ever. And 99% of people agree. But there is one who doesn't.

The same girl who told me that sports were all about "nationalism and war."

Ahhh, Lindsey. Lindsey, Lindsey, Lindsey. When will you stop giving me fodder to write about?

First go read about the incident from a few weeks back, when I was trying to watch Game 6 of the Rockets-Lakers series in peace on my front porch.

Now you're ready for the update.

About two weeks ago, after the first confirmation that the Gatti's commercial had been spotted by some of Lauren's friends, I was telling the story to all my neighbors, and I was excited: ME! ON A GATTI'S COMMERCIAL! THIS IS THE GREATEST THING EVER! Everyone agreed: Yes, this is the greatest thing ever. You! On a Gatti's commercial! Please tell us more.

These are the types of environments in which haters love to hate: when everyone else is excited.

"But that's just ... consumerism," came the barely audible voice. Lindsey speaks very, very quietly, like you're listening to a song on your computer with the headphones plugged into the jack, only, the headphones are sitting on the table. I could tell she was making some type of revolutionary statement, but I couldn't pick out the words. So I asked her to repeat herself.

"That's, like, consumerism."

Still, couldn't hear. One more time, I told her.

"You're just like, feeding the cycle, and numbing their brains so they'll want to buy pizza."

Oh, God. Here we go again.

"Lindsey..."

"That's just ... consumerism," she said, cutting me off.

I took a sip of my beer and rolled my eyes. Everything inside of me was screaming, "Let it go, dude. Just let it go. Just let, it, go."

But I just couldn't do it.

"What in the world are you talking about?" My voice was getting agitated, a la the time she implied that watching the Rockets-Lakers game was akin to going to a Nazi Youth rally. "They're trying to run a business! They want you to know, 'Hey, we sell pizza. Come buy some. From us!'"

You know those people who like to make ridiculous comments that they know will rile people up, and how they just don't listen, to anyone other than maybe Alex Jones? When you come back at them with some sort of demand that they explain their ridiculous comment logically, they just spit back more ridiculous comments that don't relate at all to your request. It's like they're not even processing your words. Their brain shuts off, and all they remember are the dogmatic mantras of wannabe revolutionaries, with buzz words such as "nationalism," "conspiracy," "truth," and, my favorite, "consumerism."

"I just don't like, want to be a part of that ... just the ... it's consumerism."

We were at a restaurant at the time, by the way. And she was consuming things.

"Have you ever ordered a pizza?" I asked, trying to end this debate before it really even started, with a walk off grand slam.

Lindsey looked rather uncomfortable in her seat. I don't know if she just doesn't learn from past experiences, or if she thought something had happened to me since the Rockets lost Game 7 that had changed my personality, from one that calls out people on their revolutionary bullshit to one that doesn't. But she was certainly a sad sight to behold as I unleashed on her, so offended was I that anyone dare not to think that me being in a Gatti's commercial was the greatest thing ever.

"Yeah..."

"Okay!" I threw my arms up in the air, like I'd just made field goal. "You're a consumer!"

It should have ended there. But it didn't. She continued to whisper anarchic comments to herself, as she clutched the debit card she was going to give the waitress, so that she could engage in consumerism. I couldn't hear anything she was saying, but it doesn't take a deaf person to read someone's lips when every third word is "consumerism."

"Let it go, Bayless," the angel on my shoulder said. "Let it go."

But I couldn't.

"How are you going to pay for the food you're eating right now?" I asked, thinking that maybe this would open her eyes to the massive hypocrisy that embodies her existence.

She showed me her debit card.

"Okay. Consumerism."

She bashfully looked down at the table, and kept muttering things about consumerism.

"Did you make your own clothes?" I asked. Silence. "Did you weld together your bike frame?" Silence. "Did you.."

"It's like, numbing their brains," she said, in the meekest act of defiance possible, yet still defiant.

The best part about Lindsey's theory that I help numb people's brains by singing the words, "and get your Gatti's pizza," on TV, in exchange for a coupon for a free pizza, is that I'd bet that her own brain has been numbed by doing massive amounts of synthetic drugs. The girl is a walking, talking example of why you should just say no to things that don't grow from the ground.

"Well Lindsey," I said, "you'd be happy to know that in exchange for doing the commercial, I got a coupon for a free pizza. So it's the exact world you'd want to live in: the barter system, where the currency is food!"

The end.