Bloody-Hell...

It was between an ad for tampons touted as more than twice as absorbent as other brands and an infomercial for an all-natural wonder-drug that had been scientifically proven as more effective in treating depression than the leading placebo that eye-rolling syllables materialized from this obfuscated dimension of existence which rests tangentially removed from the realm of such ad-things.

"Bloody-Hell"

The interlocutor shifted in an ergonomically designed recliner while searching for the device which had been imbued with the gawd-like power to teleport viewing consciousness from one reality TV-show to another. After having retrieved the magic-wand/remote-control from the forgotten and obscured abyss approximately located between memory-foam cushions and a too-casual-for-company clothed arse more focus-group type feedback was transmitted.

"Why don't they just cram all this pschyt up their ahss?"

The mute button was depressed and channels blinked into and out of perceived existence as I sat silenced and bewildered with my consciousness skipping through un-televised thoughts. -Who\what were these they---Why would they---Don't tampons go---Was that drug-thing supposed to be a suppository---

Even though I've left the room I still feel as if I have been unable to remove my head from---, but more importantly I fear I may be unable to ever truly leave this remote realm. It's as if--- Oh wait, my show's about to start! Maybe I should call that 1-800 number to order those anti-depression suppositories they were selling. They're supposed to be better than placebos.