Myotron Pulse Wave (Crime in America)

All sorts of infomercials routinely appeal to the greed, vanity, and laziness inherent in fallen humanity. But Crime in America, the infomercial of the Myotron Pulse Wave, unabashedly plays into the fear of being a victim of violent crime. The producers must have said to themselves, “We’re gonna peddle terror and we don’t care who knows!” And they use lots of hokey dramatizations to drive home the point that the Myotron will protect you. The cheesiness of these scenes combined with the melodrama of the appeals makes Crime in America my pick for the #1 funniest infomercial of all time!

Right at the start, the program airs a warning that “Viewer Discretion May Be Advisable” because of the “Explicit Material.” Several crime statistics are then rattled off to convince the viewers of the near-certainty of their getting raped and murdered in the next few minutes. Stepping in front of the camera, the host asks solemnly, “See if you can find yourself, or someone you know, in any of these situations.” What follows is a montage of fear: ominous, frantic, synthesizer music plays–>newspaper headlines like “Woman Robbed By 2 Armed Men” and “Rape Called ‘Enormous’ Problem” flash across the screen over a quick succession of portrayals of vicious crimes–>a woman is pulled into an alley and gang-raped by a multi-ethnic group of thugs –>carrying a bouquet of flowers, a man knocks at a door and then violently grabs the girl who answers –>a pervert behind some trees leers balefully at co-eds on the campus lawn–>the covers of a People magazine headline “Rape, Shame & Fear” and a Newsweek with Jeffery Dahmer’s picture emerge from the screen–>a woman is seized and dragged into a van as she leaves her aerobics class–>a blubbery brute of a dad mercilessly beats his daughter with a belt as the mother tries vainly to stop him–>a Peeping Tom stares rabidly at a showering woman–>in a 911 call a hysterical lady tells of the stranger who has broken into her home–>This montage ends with a close-up of a black-and-white photo of California serial killer “The Nightstalker,” followed by a scene of someone being wheeled into an emergency room, and the flat beep of death. The purpose of this grisly montage is to make the viewers hide under their beds and wet their pants in fear of all the “crime” that threatens them. These producers ought to be making MediScare ads for the Democrats.

The rest of this infomercial alternates between a panel discussion and ludicrous dramatizations of the Myotron Pulse Wave in action. On the set the host interviews a “career criminologist,” a “veteran instructor of self-defense,” and a past president of Colt Firearms, who insist that mace, martial arts, and guns are worthless but that you can rest assured with “the new science of pulse wave technology.” The panel also features two crime victims to convince the viewers that getting raped is unpleasant. Through questions from the host and the audience we learn how this “product of the space age” works: upon being attacked you press a button and thrust this contraption against the body of your assailant; the pulse then “intercepts the brainwaves and scrambles the nervous system” and the attacker “will simply collapse and be immobilized,” leaving you free to go about your business. So the Myotron works like a stun gun—even though these experts vigorously deny that it’s anything so crude as a “stun gun.” The Myotron attaches to your keys, and you supposedly have to lug this thing around everywhere you go if you want to fend off crime: indeed, one of the victims on the panel swears that she sleeps with one under her pillow. To make it easier for you to spend the rest of your existence hauling this mechanism around, it comes in your choice of black or ivory.

However, the greatest source of laughs in Crime in America comes from its wholly unbelievable dramatizations. In one, a frail elderly couple are sitting on a park bench when a burly Latino thug and his black companion step up to them threateningly. “You old people sit on my bench, you’re gonna have to paaaay,” the Latino, who sports a black dew-rag decorated with skulls, informs them.

“We don’t want any trouble,” the old biddy squawks out.

“Y’all run along and play,” her crotchety husband adds.

The thug responds (and I quote), “What’s this jive he’s talkin’? ‘Run along
and play’?…You better give me your wallet, mister, or I’m gonna rearrange yo’ head.”

“I’ll bet you’ll want my car keys, too,” the old man graciously offers—just before zapping his assailant with a Myotron. As the criminal plunges backwards, his black accomplice does a wide-eyed double take and then ploddingly flees. The expression on the black guy’s face is precious—you half-expect him to cry, “Feets don’t fail me now!” before scurrying off.

Another dramatization features a woman alone in an elevator when a Bob Guiccione-type, with gold chains dangling over his hairy chest, pushes his way through the sliding doors. Synthesizer guitar licks—the kind of music featured in porn videos—plays. Once securely inside, the man proceeds to rub his hand up and down the woman’s ass.

“Get your hand off me,” she tells him with high dudgeon.

“Hey baby, you and me can party,” the sleazeball invites.

“I’m telling you for the last time, bozo: Get you hand off me.” When the
pervert refuses to comply, she takes her Myotron and aims it right at his overheated testicles.

The scene cuts to the outside of the elevator. The doors slide open and the man inside writhes on the floor in pain. An old lady waiting outside asks the woman, “What happened to him?”

“Oh, just a little attitude adjustment concerning women,” she responds as she struts off with her head in the air.

One might think that, even if the Myotron worked as promised, these people who had been nearly made the victims of rape or mugging would be at least a little shook up. But no. They make wisecracks and even cross their legs casually as their would-be attackers lie prostrate only a few feet away.

The infomercial’s final dramatization perfectly blends the grim and the uproarious. Two sisters, Arianne and Alexia, spend a happy afternoon shopping for Alexia’s upcoming wedding, but on the drive home their car gets a flat tire. This must happen on some country backroad and they must not have been able to do anything about their situation all day long, because the scene immediately cuts to nighttime. The bright lights of a big pickup truck blare through the darkness, and two fat, drunken rednecks descend, wielding their half-empty bottles of Jack. The two sisters desperately lock their car doors to keep out the hicks, who press their white beer-bellies against the window and shout seductively, “Open that door, woman!” One of the hillbillies smashes the car window with a rock, and they drag the two women into the woods.

We are then told that Alexia is now confined to a mental institution; she cannot speak but only stares into space all day, reliving the horror. The dead body of Arianne was found by a man; that man then dedicated his life to helping people protect themselves and ended up creating the Myotron.

In the infomercial’s denouement, the host says, “Since we began this documentary, over 2400 crimes have been committed.” This thing—the most tasteless infomercial ever—a documentary??

One note: Later airings featured an edited version of the Crime in America infomercial. The Park Bench and Elevator dramatizations were replaced with boring testimonials. They might as well have torn down half the Parthenon to put in a McDonalds! The edited version is still worth watching but it doesn’t match the hilarity of the original.

Crime in America, the infomercial of the Myotron Pulse Wave, is a classic, a laugh riot from the opening disclaimer to the closing small print, and far and away the most ridiculous infomercial ever broadcast.