Talk of the Town - Horsey sauce with that, McDude? June 20 2001

Consumer humiliation comes in many forms: The surly cashier. The haughty clerk. The waiter who wouldn't make eye contact if you were a self-immolating Buddhist monk. But for major league mortification, consider the embarrassment wrought by silly product names. I vividly remember my first time.

I was 10. They opened a Burger King in my neighborhood, and the house specialty seemed a good idea.

"Can I take your order?" asked the chirpy register lass.

"A hamburger, please."

"A regular hamburger?"

"No." I knew what they wanted me to say. "The big one."

She looked irritated. "The Whopper?"

There it was. The Whopper. A term defined by Webster as: (1) "something unusually large or otherwise extreme of its kind," or (2) "an extravagant or monstrous lie." Makes you wonder if anyone in BK's marketing office read past (1).

Burger King is the self-described "Home of the Whopper." Being in the Whopper's legal domicile, I should have requested it by name. But I was too self-conscious.

There is something about the word "whopper," something preposterous that happens to the human countenance while pronouncing it: the way lips pucker during the "who-," the manner in which one's cheeks puff out pronouncing that double "p." I couldn't, I wouldn't, do it.

You can sidestep the occasional silly product name, but America is fraught with such commercial landmines. I have reddened at the prospect of asking for Chicken McNuggets and blanched requesting a Fribble in Friendly's ice cream parlor. If they're so friendly, why do I feel like a horse's whopper?

Then there's the embarrassing transgender retail purchase. How many men have been sent to the store in search of feminine products, the kind advertised in commercials featuring summer breezes, gymnasts and a walk on the beach? The kind of commercial a fella' watches and wonders, "What was that for anyway?"

My orders were simple.

"I don't want the mega-maxi," she said. "Just the ultra-maxi. In a purple box."

Fifteen minutes later I was phoning home.

"Define purple."

"Huh?"

"You told me it's in a purple box. All feminine products are in a purple box. They've got mauve, magenta, lilac, lavender, violet and amethyst. Plus there is no ultra-maxi. There's super-maxi, extra-maxi, mini-maxi and taxi-maxi. They've got every kind of maxi except Slapsie Maxie Rosenbloom."

"Who?"

"A boxer-turned-movie actor. Mostly "B" pictures. 1940s. You never saw him walking on a beach."

But my Cup of Chagrin truly overflowed the day I hit the Home Store. I was already nervous about making this run because, well, I'm not a handy guy. When the National Weather Service issues a tornado warning and advises me to hightail it under a sturdy workbench, I'm staring into the jaws of death.

The Home Store is filled with burly guys in plaid flannel who can tell the difference between a 3/16th screwhead toggle and a 4/17th flatbolt hitchback. I'd be lucky to buy three bags of cypress mulch and get out without having my masculinity questioned.

Just as I was easing into the car, she added another item to the list: "We need Goo Gone."

Amazed, I asked for more information.

"It removes unwanted glue," she sighed.

"Well I'm not saying it. It's absurd. Besides, glue is a very basic concept. Think about where you want it before you put it down. That way, you won't have to remove it by purchasing something as dumb as ... "

"As what?"

"You're trying to trick me into saying it. Anyway, you use nail polish remover to remove glue."

"No," she said. "You use nail polish remover to remove nail polish. You use Goo Gone to ... "

"Yeah, yeah."

This was going to be a difficult mission. I would have to find, secure and purchase a product without ever saying its name.

The average Home Store is the size of a zeppelin hangar. It's not like strolling the supermarket until I find a cantaloupe. The Home Store didn't offer a Goo Gone section. Home Stores have basic, primitive aisles: Floors. Windows. Doors. Dirt.

I orbited that store three times and put at least two miles on my shoes before succumbing to the fact that I couldn't find Goo Gone. But in a last, desperate burst of inspiration, I wrote the name on a slip of paper and, in basic bank-robber style, handed it to a Home Store customer service representative.

"Do you have this?" I asked meekly.

He took me straight to the Goo Gone. Aisle 3, right up front.

All right, so I was still humiliated. But you cannot make me a slave to retail America's moronic jingles, slogans and product names. I am not a sales pitch. I am a free man!

I'm quoting. The original phrase was delivered in the '60s TV series, "The Prisoner." Starring Patrick McGoohan.

Now, there's a silly name. He could be the spokesman for Goo Gone.

Glen Slattery is enjoying the summer breeze in Whopperetta.??