WARNING: This column is tasteless. No one should read it. Period. Except for the marketing executives at Fleet.

The other day EneMan™ came into my life. EneMan is Fleet Enema’s mascot/superhero. My personal EneMan is a soft squishy foam toy. It is quite simply one of the most horrid marketing inventions I’ve come across to date. As my husband so aptly put it “EneMan… it’s just so wrong.” And I have to agree. Charley the Tuna, I understand. Same with Mr. Clean, Count Chocula and the Trix rabbit. But EneMan? What were these guys thinking?

The most frightening thing about EneMan is that so much work went into his creation. EneMan represents countless meetings, drawings, discussions and proposals. There is an EneMan purchase order, an EneMan production company. There was an EneMan photo shoot and vast reams of paper associated with EneMan: invoices, spread sheets and requisition forms. EneMan is in my living room because hundreds of people and hundreds of thousands of dollars made sure he was. (Along with the help of a friend of mine with an absolutely demented sense of humor—thanks Dallas!)

First, some marketing genius at Fleet proposed EneMan at one of their brainstorming sessions. In my mind it went something like this: “Hey, you know, enemas are pretty scary,” the person said. “We need to soften our image. Maybe throw a bit of humor in there. Put a face on our enemas. A friendly face. No maybe a superhero’s face—EneMan! Saving millions from the horrors of constipation!” the marketing person exulted. Some people at the meeting were rightfully appalled with this idea. However, some marketing executive thought it was a great idea. He jumped on it. “Better get that name trademarked before someone else gets it. That’s gonna be a popular name. I mean, with the Internet and all. All we need is some porn site taking our name and ruining our campaign. Or worse, some Saturday morning cartoon on Cartoon Network. EneMan would make a great cartoon hero, wouldn’t he?” “By, God, you’re right!” exclaimed another corporate executive. “Bob, get on that one right away, we don’t want EneMan snatched away from us before we can get this campaign started.” The people at the meeting who hated the idea were afraid of voicing their opinions and losing their jobs so they kept their mouths shut. And so the action item was taken down, it’s order given to some flunky and the first step in EneMan’s journey had begun.

Bringing EneMan to life required an artist. Perhaps one of these enslaved corporate scribblers came up with the concept themselves—quite a payoff for a four years toiling away at art and design school. Somehow I think the artist pictured their future very differently. I don’t think they were at the New York Museum of Art gazing up at the oils thinking to themselves “Someday… I will create EneMan! My career highlight! My life fulfilled!” And I doubt the creation of EneMan will ever make it to the artist’s resume. However, one of these poor slobs was assigned to draw EneMan, make clay models of him and this same artist probably devoted two full years of his or her life to the creation of the enema superhero.

After the drawings and clay models were approved on EneMan, the order went to a production company. Which involved much correspondence, many phone calls, business trips and meetings. Which resulted in some Chinese manufacturers being even more convinced that the Americans had lost their collective minds.

Soon, scores of EneMen rolled off the assembly line, carried along on conveyor belts, like little garish soldiers going off to fight the good war for regularity. From there, the EneMen bravely marched their way to the packing plant, where they were boxed up and shipped to their homeland—the United States of America. Finally, after a long voyage across the open seas, the first leg of the EneMen’s journey came to an end. The EneMen had come home.

After our little squishy heroes arrived, they were unpacked and admired by their creators. “Look at these little babies!” the marketing executive exclaimed. “These have exceeded my wildest expectations! Talk about trade show swag! Boy, are we gonna beat the pants off those Viagra jerks! There’s gonna be a run on these little puppies. Oh, no pun intended. Heh-heh-heh!”

From the marketing department at corporate headquarters, the EneMen were dispatched to trade shows across the nation. And how they were welcomed! They even had a guy inside a giant EneMan costume at the trade shows, passing out lovely little likenesses of himself to eager medical professionals. EneMan ended up in briefcases from California to New York City. What a triumph for the EneMen! Can you imagine how happy the husbands and wives of these professionals were to see EneMen marching into their own homes? Yes. Probably about as happy as getting an enema.

After I began writing this column, I wanted to know how close to the truth I was about EneMan’s creation. So, I looked him up on the web. Here’s the actual, verbatim quote from C.B. Fleet Company’s corporate website about the creation of EneMan. “LOOK! UP IN THE SKY. IT’S A BIRD! IT’S A PLANE! A NEW FORCE FIGHTS TO INCREASE COLORECTAL CANCER SCREENING!” It is beyond me how the people at Fleet thought a caped superhero in the shape of an enema would alert people to the risks of colorectal cancer.

What I think happened is that they created EneMan to sell their product and after EneMan came back to corporate headquarters, someone finally came to their senses and dared to voice their opinion to the marketing boss. “Um, I’m not sure this is the best marketing idea we’ve had. I mean, EneMan is a superhero and an enema. Do you think the consumer will really like the idea of a superhero flying up their butt?” “But we’ve spent hundreds of thousands of dollars on EneMan!” the marketing executive thundered. “What do we do with him now? We can’t just abandon EneMan!” Then another person at the meeting said, “Well, we’ve been tapped to do this awareness program on colorectal cancer.” “Fine! Perfect!” the marketing executive exclaimed. “We’ll say we created EneMan to promote awareness for colorectal cancer! Then the CEO won’t find out we just blew five hundred grand on a turkey marketing idea. You’re a genius! Give that man a promotion!”

I still say it was a stupid idea. I, personally, do not like the idea of a superhero flying up my rear. But maybe that’s just me.

However, I now count EneMan as one of my most precious belongings. Never will I discard EneMan to the cruelty of the dumps or the vast wasteland of thrift stores. No, my EneMan has found a permanent home. EneMan will serve to be my own personal superhero. My constant vindication for choosing a career outside of corporate America.

© 2004, Janet Periat

I’m tired. And not just because I had Apocalyptic dreams all night. I’m tired because modern living is exhausting me.

We were not meant to live like this. We started in small tribes. Our main concern was the same as it is today. Survival. However, a hundred plus thousand years ago, survival meant getting enough food and shelter. That was it. We killed animals, we picked fruit, we argued with our relatives. When we got too old to kill things, we hung out around the camp, taking care of the children and telling the younger generations that they were doing everything wrong. The younger ones rolled their eyes, fed us and cared for us until we died. And that was it.

Ogg and Mrs. Ogg didn’t have to buy insurance for an exorbitant price only to find out when their hut got wiped out, the policy didn’t cover hut repair. Nor did the hut get red-tagged. After a fire, if he mistakenly took down the last wall of his hut, he could still rebuild, he didn’t have to worry about new zoning laws. Or eminent domain.

Ogg didn’t have to worry about sacrificing his entire wealth to buy a house, either. When huts didn’t work out, he and his wife just wandered around with the rest of the tribe until they found a suitable cave. And they didn’t have to pay property taxes on the cave, furnish it with granite countertops, a Jacuzzi and the latest high def TV and surround sound.

Ogg didn’t worry about 401K plans, about the stock market tanking. He didn’t work 80 hours a week so that his boss could buy himself a private island in the Pacific. He didn’t have to worry about registering his car, insuring it and making sure to get a smog check by a certain date. Ogg didn’t have to worry about filing his income tax forms or umbrella policies, lawsuits or jury duty.

Mrs. Ogg didn’t take care of the kids by shuttling them manically between Chinese language lessons, soccer practice and Scout meetings. She didn’t worry about trans fatty acids or if her kids would go to an Ivy League school. The only thing she worried about was feeding them and keeping them safe from large animals.

Mrs. Ogg also had a whole tribe helping her take care of her kids. Children in tribes were never alone. Because Mr. and Mrs. Ogg never had to work late at the office to afford the McMansion, the Beemer and the timeshare at the lake. Ogg and his wife and their friends and parents were all together all the time. They didn’t need cell phones, Facebook and text messages to keep in touch. They were all close enough to actually talk to face-to-face.

I don’t wonder why we’re all so unhappy. We are meant to live simple lives in tribes. We are meant to work in groups with everyone’s focus on the overall, rather than the individual—not in a corporation where Ogg the Boss is making 600 times more than Worker Ogg. We were meant to watch each other’s backs and help each other.

People are so disconnected from one another today, if we see someone get attacked in a city street, more often than not, we don’t come to the person’s aid. We walk by derelicts in the gutter and avert our eyes. He isn’t any relation to me. I don’t know him. Yet, he is our neighbor. We’re all neighbors. If you haven’t noticed, we’re the only planet around for freakin’ miles and miles.

Yet, today, it is rare that we even know our neighbors. We live apart, plugged into iPods, iPhones, Bluetooth headsets, Gameboys and laptops. We don’t say hi when we meet on the street. Pubs are dying, cities are spreading out. Suburban and city living promotes isolation. We’re all so alone, we think others don’t like us. We’re afraid of others. We huddle in small, narrow groups, afraid of the differences in the other groups.

None of this makes any sense. We all have the exact same goals. We all want the same things. To be loved and respected for who we are and what we do, to have purpose and to be validated for the energy we put out. We want good sex, good food, a nice warm place to sleep and some laughs. That’s it. Humans are simple creatures. So how did our world become this unwieldy matrix of laws and rules and conditions and requirements?

Because somewhere along the way, the Oggs did so well, their tribe got really big. Which put someone in the position of managing the group. Which led to an agrarian society. Once we transitioned to an agrarian society, the Oggs in charge quickly realized that they didn’t have to toil in the soil any longer, they could sit in the shade and “manage” the others. Since they weren’t actually doing anything, they became disconnected from their underlings. The money coming in was so good, they began keeping more and more for themselves. Then they hung out with other managers and got even further disconnected. They became their own little tribe within a tribe with a new pecking order. Which prompted the Manager Oggs to cut the fieldworkers benefits and increase their hours to get even more money to impress their managerial friends.

And that’s where we are today. Still. After umpteen thousand years. You’d think we’d have all caught on a bit sooner.

I’m sick of it. Yet, the only solutions I can come up with are self-employment and spending more time with my friends. I’m still stuck with the taxes, building codes and smog checks. I’m also stuck sharing this wonderful planet with a bunch of power-hungry, greedy banker Oggs who just took ALL our money for themselves and left us with nothing. And with all those military Oggs who want to bomb everyone and everything to “make us safer”.

Which makes me sorely tempted to leave modern society and go cave-hunting. Well, with some differences from Ogg’s cave. I mean, I need my computer. So I’ll need a landline to the cave or a satellite dish outside. Caves are kinda drafty by nature, so I’ll have to build an enclosure inside with insulation. Might as well plumb it. And a fridge and a stove would come in handy. Maybe I can find a cave within walking distance of a city. Close enough for pizza delivery would be good, but not essential.

If you pass a woman on the street wearing animal skins carrying a pizza and heading out of town, please wave and say hi. Maybe join me if we get along. Don’t be afraid. I’m just like you.

©2008, Janet Periat