The Schnucks guy? Terry Crouppen? Don Weber monotoning, "No money down!" In an audio-visual tar pit of car dealers, lighting specialists, clock-makers and personal-injury lawyers, one leader stands above this pack of personae, and she's Becky, Queen of Carpets. With a tiara that's quite obviously worth millions -- if not more -- Becky leads the pack in sincere outsider-advertising kitsch. Seen hovering over the Arch on late-night TV nearly every night (has homeland security been notified?) in a sequined ballgown, with a beauty-pageant air that would make Deborah Norville green, Becky's ads contain the most necessary element of a successful local spot: She's not obnoxious. Behold the Schnucks guy who roams store aisles (and he's a whore -- he shills his "personality" to many, many grocery chains throughout the land -- so how can you trust his opinion?); car dealers who ought to be strapped with canine anti-bark collars; the endless stream of personal-injury ads, not to mention the "cheap cheap fun fun" Dirt Cheap chicken. Where's the dignity in that? To quote Her Majesty, in her lilting tone, "Nobody beats Becky's!"
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