My love for late-night infomercials is well documented. I love the gimmicks and scams and personalities; the ultra-fake talk-show format, the spectacular acting and the paid studio audiences. Do infomercials exist in foreign countries? They probably do, but they feel like a uniquely American art form.

Lately, my infomercial viewing has found religion, and why not? Organized religion is probably humankind’s longest running and most successful infomercial. Religion has the best gimmicks at its disposal, be they supreme saviors rising from the dead or an afterlife filled with a billion virgins. Not even Ron Popeil could touch that, not with all the Pocket Fishermen or RonCo Food Dehydrators in the world.

Before I go any further, I should mention that I don’t have any problem with religion. I think religion, at its core, is a beautiful idea. It brings people together and makes the impossible to understand–i.e., “Why are we here?” “What does it all mean?” and “What happens when we die?”–far less daunting. You could throw all the science you want at these questions, and I bet everyone would fawn all over you for being a big ol’ smarty pants, but it wouldn’t provide anyone much in the way of comfort, understanding or community.

Religion’s a wonderful tool. When placed in the right hands, it can do wonderful things for a lot of people. So, this column isn’t targeted at you or your wonderful pastor, priest, rabbi, imam or shaman. What I’m talking about here is the snake-oil salesmen, or the wolves in sheep’s clothing, or, more specifically, Dr. Mike Murdock.

Dr. Murdock is everything you’d expect from a televangelist. He’s charismatic–even funny sometimes. His speech can go from soothing to fiery at the drop of a hat. He has great hair. My favorite feature, though, is his nearly invisible headset microphone; it’s so small and well concealed, it looks almost like a Tylenol capsule that hovers just above the corner of his mouth.

Murdock’s key gimmick, as far as I can tell, is his Law of the Seed. He advises on his program that if you sow seeds, God will grant you a harvest. The “seed,” of course, is a parable. He’s not asking his faithful to start a garden, though he doesn’t seem outright opposed to the idea. Have at it. Plant some tomatoes, but if you want to plant a seed with God and reap the benefits, according to Dr. Murdock, it’s best if you send cold, hard American Cash.

Tithing and religion have always gone hand in hand. The custom varies from sect to sect, denomination to denomination. God’s all-seeing and all-knowing, according to another great earthly prophet named George Carlin, but he’s just not good with money. He needs it, maybe; or more likely the church needs money to pay civilian employees, keep their cupboards stocked, and if they’re doing the right thing, for charitable programs in their community. But how much should you give, if you’re pious? Pocket change? Ten percent of your salary? It’s so ambigious. Dr. Murdock eliminates that tedious guess work–$1,000 will suffice.

He understands that the economy is bad. People are getting laid off, are losing or have lost their homes. They’re riddled with debt. But none of these things should be seen as obstacles in getting on the phone and dropping a grand (operators are standing by). If you’re buried under a pile of credit card debt, you surely don’t have anything to lose. You can charge your seed to your Master Card and hope it blooms before the bill comes.

Dr. Murdock doesn’t seem to be turning down the smaller donations. Those are fine. But if you want a big harvest, $1,000 really is the way to go. You get what you give and all that. He says, on his late-night, fake talk-show-style infosermonmercial that you can’t buy a miracle for $1,000. Heck, you couldn’t buy a miracle for $1 million, but if you sow a $1,000 seed, you can expect a “harvest.”

Did you see what he did there? It’s the kind of clever word play you’d expect from a doctor. I’m not sure why it’s different to try to buy a harvest from God instead of a miracle. If I’m forking over $1,000 to a supernatural being for something, I’d at the very least like to have some water turned into wine. I guess I’m just a man of little faith. Still, as with any infomercial, the more times I see it, the more it makes sense. Who knows? Maybe Dr. Murdock is on to something. Unfortunately, I am low on cash, so if anyone wants to go in on a $1,000 seed with me, let me know. I promise I’ll spread the harvest around.

James Barone
jb@submergemag.com

We’ve all heard plenty about the economy. We all know it’s miserable. It’s gotten to the point now that its bleakness has become somewhat comfortable. Our Internet-shortened attention spans have made it so that we can’t remember a time when it was better. But even in this time of financial woe, there’s one sector of the economy that seems recession-proof. Late night infomercials are as prevalent as ever.

Infomercials have long been a staple of my late-night television diet. The TV in my bedroom is a cheap, off-brand tube set hooked up to rabbit ears. There is cable in other parts of the house, but I never liked having a lot of TV in my bedroom. It’s too distracting (from sleeping–not much else goes on in there). The last time I had cable in my bedroom, I’d find myself getting lost for hours on Cinemax On-Demand soft-core porn. The important thing is, the TV set receives PBS, the football games (in season) and infomercials, which lull me to sleep.

Mike Levey
When I was young, Mike Levey and his sweaters used to rule the infomercial-sphere with an iron fist. He was my gateway drug to late-night, program-length commercials. On Amazing Discoveries, he unveiled the Europainter, that car wax stuff and the gunk that would strip varnish off of furniture (which I suspected was the car wax stuff in a different container). All were hits. Mike Levey is dead now. His tersely worded Wikipedia entry says only that he died of an illness in 2003. It hardly seems to do justice to someone who played such a big part in my teenage years, and who’d helped me get the most enjoyment out of my insomnia.

There will never be another Mike Levey. Those were simpler, carefree times. In his place, I’m stuck with Klee Irwin, a harsh man with a harsh message for harsher times. Whereas Levey hocked a multitude of products, Irwin’s one-trick pony is the Dual Action Cleanse, which he purports will flush your intestines clean of all their caked on fecal matter. What I like about Irwin, other than his mustache and slicked back hair, is that he’s a modest guy. He apologizes profusely for being so graphic, but he regrets that there’s no other way to say it. The gist of Irwin’s message is this: You’re basically a walking sack of shit. It’s your fault, too–all those bad eating habits, all that red meat, all that coffee and alcohol and those scooter pies. You should’ve eaten more bran.

Irwin’s show is very much different than Amazing Discoveries. There is no pomp or studio audience. There are no wacky demonstrations or silly Australian dudes. There are just talking heads and cold, hard facts. But this is serious business. Irwin wants you to understand the gravity of the situation. That rotting fecal matter (again, sorry about being so graphic!) is causing you to have gas, bloating, bad skin, low energy, chronic halitosis, premature ejaculation, pancreatic cancer, the cooties and lycanthropy. If you’re not having two to three healthy bowel movements a day (and bless you if you have that kind of time on your hands), you may need to cleanse.

At first, my reaction to the show was purely lowbrow. It was all that talk about poop that helped me chuckle myself to sleep. But after a while, my opinion changed. I still giggled at all the ca-ca euphemisms, but what if Irwin was on to something? I couldn’t use the bathroom without examining the size of my stool. Perhaps the mind is more open to suggestion right before sleep, but after a while, I was almost convinced that I needed the product. I believed in Irwin.

Unfortunately, the Internet–once again–proved that faith is an antiquated notion. Tonight, I read an article that exposed Klee Irwin as a quack and warned readers not to buy his products. It was like the night I found out Santa Claus didn’t exist. Furthermore, in this down economy, isn’t it our patriotic duty to buy this shit that will make us shit?