Dear Listerine Girl,
You are very beautiful.
My roommate posits that you are, in his opinion, the very avatar of the phrase “cute as a button.” I disagreed with him, arguing that to say so would, in fact, equate you with overly fatty babies and really expensive and collectible ceramic dolls. To which I say, “Heck, not on my watch” (I never actually spoke that aloud though). I simply think you are one of the most aesthetically striking women I have ever seen. It’s not a question of pure and perfect beauty though. I mean, you are not what I would call “sublime.” Your appearance does not cause me to quake or spin my wheels in praise of God’s power, no.
But there is something very charming and endearing, the way your cheeks puff out as if there were jawbreakers in your mouth straining to escape, the manner in which the aperture of your eyelids varies greatly from frame to frame, which I can only speculate is due to the Herculean effort you must be expending in order to not gag on the nitric acid (known commercially as “Listerine”) in your mouth. My point being: you are to be congratulated on winning what is known sometimes in political philosophy as “the natural lottery.” Through no merit of your own, save your having not yet died, you possess good looks of such a degree as to forcibly alter my and my roommate’s (and probably lots of other guys’) brain chemistry to the point where we calmly and seriously discussed what kind of time commitment it would take to tape and then loop your commercial into some sort of full-length Clockwork Orange-ish montage. I might add that we lack both a VCR and the necessary editing knowledge, and were candidly discussing this in front of our girlfriends (who have silently resigned themselves to things like this, much in the same warily quasi-existential way that Charlie Brown enters the Lucy + football equation).
Feel free to add my name to any sort of Pfizer mailing list. Thank you.