The Nasonex Bee.
I am in a bad mood, and do you want to know why, my little flower? I have frightful seasonal allergies, that's why! And rather than an industrial-sized can of NAzzzzoNex, I have Flonase. "Flonase," said in the flat, disaffected accent of a research scientist. "Flonase," pronounced with as much verve and panache as someone might pronounce the words "dry cracker" or "toilet brush." "Flonase," with no racy pronunciation of the "zzzz!" near the end. Antonio Banderas could have done a good job with FLOOOoooNazze but did they hire him? No! Too cheap. Too unimaginative.
The Nasonex bee, on the other hand, is a bee to reckon with. It's crazy to see that big-eyed, growly bee whizzing around the heads of the poor people struggling with seasonal allergies! He doesn't mess around. He uses NAZZZZZooooNex.
You may ask: What if the Nasonex Bee did not have a Spanish accent? What if he had a southern twang, or a clipped British accent, or even a thuggy Italian grunt? Wouldn't things be DIFFERENT? Wouldn't your, like, whole Weltanschauung be disrupted?
Yes, it would, and such things are impossible and hurt the mind to contemplate. The Nasonex bee must be a Spanish-speaking bee, voiced by Antonio Banderas, as much as the sun must rise in the morning. Some things are just part of the natural cycle. When those Nasonex ad reps sat in a room, they might have considered other options such as:
French: Nasonneaux
German: Der Nazzonex
Greek: Nasopolous
Russian: Das Nazoneski
But in reality, none would suffice except the bee we now know and love--a bee with a hint of Pepe le Pew, Latino style, snuggling up to a flower with lust in his heart and allergens in his nostrils.
Flonase. Oh, the dullness and inefficacy of it makes me want to shove my head into a hermetically-sealed, allergen-free, dust-free, oxygen-free sack.
