If you live in around Cincinnati, along with the premium weather coverage from thousands and thousands of Doppler Radars, you also get a heavy dose of classic Fifth Third Bank commercials. They are sponsors for the Bengals, though we're not selling anything here. We're just merely observers checking out a world that tends to be very entertaining. One such commercial gives you the sense that through the years, and years, and years, the orange-hued spirit of Bengals fandom that pulsates from a spirit within that captures the youth... blah, blah, blah. Queue young lady dancing awesomely to suspect choice of music.
I don't mind young lovely lady dancing awesomely like she was at a New Kids On The Block Concert, sporting her Bengals garb with unabashed pride. The music, however, reminds me of this one time in high school when I was tripping on acid. A fond memory involving a cat, a midget and a bag of cheetos. The puffy kind. Then you have a fat guy taking off his shirt. The same guy that you'd probably run away from as if you were being chased by zombies. And not the recently converted zombies still appearing semi-human, decked out in a catholic school uniform and you're only instinct is to make sure 100% that she's a zombie. Yes, this is my brain. But are you really a zombie?