SEARS Air Conditioning Commercial (2012 Explicit Version)

Sweltering in the midday summer heat, Susan fans herself with the door of her family’s opened fridge.

            “I can’t live another day without air conditioning,” she moans.

“It says tomorrow is going to be hotter,” comes the response from her husband Hank, who is sitting at their kitchen table, parroting the newspaper.


“Like yesterday,” says Hank.

“Yesterday?” Susan asks and she moves around the fridge door so she can see her husband. “Yesterday you said you’d call SEARS.”

“Well I didn’t get around to it,” Hank says as he straightens a page of his newspaper, “I’ll call today.”

“You call now,” says Susan. She picks up the phone off the counter and holds it out to him.

“Susan, I’m doing something right now. I’ll call later.”

“Doing something? You’re not doing anything. You’re just reading the newspaper for, like, the third time this morning. The news is: I’m hot and I need my husband to call SEARS for me right now. After that you can go back to your paper and your coffee and I will stop bugging you.”

“Honey, what did I just say?” says Hank, “I’m busy. Why don’t you just keep hanging out in the fridge. I’ll call later.”

“Hank,” Susan says, “You call now.”

Hank looks up from his paper and sees his wife staring at him expectantly with wide eyes. Her face is flushed and her forehead is beaded with sweat. Her hair falls scraggled and greasy against her spaghetti strapped shoulders. She looks very unattractive. Hank looks away, back down to his paper.

“Don’t look away from me, Hank. I’m talking to you. We’re talking here.”

“What do you want from me, Susan?”

“I want you to stop reading your paper, get off your ass, and call SEARS!”

“Fucking Christ, Susan, I said I’m busy. Why don’t you call them?”

“Don’t talk to me that way, Hank, don’t you do it,” says Susan, brandishing the phone at her husband.

“What way Susan?”

“You cursed at me.”

“I did. Because you won’t leave me alone. As far as I can see, you aren’t doing anything right now, if you really need SEARS called right now you should do it yourself.”

“I can’t call SEARS, Hank.” Susan said starting to get slightly exasperated, “You have to do it.”

“And why is that?” says Hank glaring.

“Because I don’t know anything about air conditioners!” Susan exclaimed, holding out her arms to her sides as if she were trying to mime an air conditioner and didn’t even know its dimensions, “You are the man of the house and the utilities, Hank. You pay those bills. And those are the kind of things that the man of the house has to take care of.”

’Man of the house’? What is the household of the 1950s?”

“No but there are certain things that always are. My father would always take care of the utilities for my mother. He would have gone out and installed for her himself. I’m not asking you to do that for me because the people at SEARS are perfectly capable and have reasonable rates. I just need you to call them right now for me because I am telling you to.”

“Aw give me a fucking break Susan! Your father’s alcoholism’d never permit him to hook up an air conditioner with any sort of competence.”

“He wasn’t always an alcoholic!” Susan cries.

“Think about the consequences of that statement, Susan. And also, why do you always compare me to your father when your mad? It’s weird. I think you should think twice before you do that next time, for your own sake.” Hank sees that he has caught Susan off guard with this comment because she does not immediately retort. Hank’s confidence grows and he refolds his newspaper and continues: “Do you want to know what I’m doing right now Susan? You haven’t asked. You assumed I’m reading the news, which is not very important, you are right about that. Are you curious? Do you want to know what your ‘man of the house’ is doing right now that is so important he can’t be torn away, which is such a bother to his sweet, helpless wife? I am looking in the Classified Section for a fucking job because we, as a family, have no sources of income right now. SEARS is the last thing on my fucking mind right now, and the last thing on our family’s list of necessary expenditures. If you want to call SEARS and get a rate quote you can, God knows you have plenty of time to do it, because you’ve never had a fucking job, and then we can talk about it. But no, instead of calling them, you’re here riding my fucking ass about it! You don’t need to know anything about air conditioners to call SEARS, Susan! SEARS are the ones who know the shit about air conditioners! When I tell you I’m busy, I’m fucking busy. Call SEARS yourself, Susan, or shut up and I’ll do it later.”

Hank finishes his rant and turns his glare back to his paper.

“…You said you were going to be nicer to me, Hank.” Susan says softly.

“Well Susan, I’m trying, but when you fucking harass me when I ask you not to it gets very difficult.”

“Fuck you, Hank!” Susan cries.

“Fuck you too, Susan.” Hanks says cooly.

“Go fuck yourself!”


“Or better yet: go fuck your secretary.”

“Susan, that is not fair! That was three years ago! I don’t even have a secretary anymore! That is not fair for you to bring that up now, in this context, that has nothing to do with anything!” Hank yells angrily.

“Call SEARS later and then go fuck your secretary, Hank!” Susan yells, storming out of the kitchen.

Hank sits for a minute. He look down at his newspaper and stares at it for a minute, not reading it. “Goddamnit,” he mutters. “Susan,” he calls, “Susan!”

No response.

“Fucking c—”


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“So what’s the paper say about tomorrow?” Susan asks.

“Another scorcher,” says Hank.

“Cool,” says Susan. She has a strawberry speared on the end of her fork, and she pops it into her mouth with a smile. “Aren’t you glad I called SEARS?”

“Yes, Honey. You did a good job,” says Hank.

“You want to know what else I did?”


“I had nasty, trangressive sex with Brian, the SEARS air conditioner man, right on top our rumbling, new KENMORE in-home air conditioner.”

“You…what? No. Outside?”

“Yes outside! My breasts were hanging out of my bikini top and I could tell he liked what he saw, and I let him take me.”

“No I don’t believe this. You didn’t. Outside? Jesus Christ! Where all the neighbors could see you?”

“Perhaps. I got to thinking about what you were said about our roles in this household, and how they were unequal. And so I had sex with the air-conditioner man, Hank, and I thought he did a great job.” Susan smiled, her voice was devastatingly cheerful, “Maybe you should be nicer to me and call SEARS when I ask you to next time, you fucking bastard, so I’m not left in a situation where I might have to make decisions like that again.”

Hank is looking up at the ceiling of their kitchen, trying to control his ragged breaths. He is muttering oaths under his breath—she is stupid, don’t kill her, she’s stupid, don’t kill her—He lets his eyes roll back into his head for a moment before exploding:

“You fucking little c—”




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