Batteries sold separately.
Perhaps those words bring back memories of Christmas mornings from days gone by—memories so miserable that they can only be compared to the tingling in your chest that accompanies a nearly-regurgitated dinner, or a bad heartburn. Memories of opening your long-awaited remote-control car or flashing spaceship or talking robot, only to find that it was as exhausted and powerless as your parents, who had spent all night wrapping it. Memories of excitedly dragging your exhausted parents into the cold Christmas morning to find an open gas station that carried batteries.
That is the joy of childhood. Things were so simple back then. Now you are the bleary-eyed grownup driving around in the cold to find batteries, and now your metabolism has deteriorated to the point that your Christmas dinner comes back up as fast as those miserable memories. Nature is paying you back, you see, for what you put your parents through. (Actually, nature is the only one in America that still pays anything back to anybody.)
Attitude sold separately.
Those words are definitely more welcome. If they sold kids with those words printed on their foreheads, I'd have a lot of kids by now. Of course, nature would never stand for that kind of thing. (It would be too easy on parents.) Instead, I found the label on a Mountain Dew bottle: "Attitude sold separately."
Also on the label was an 800 number. I called it and got a young lady with an attractive voice. (Use your imagination.) The conversation went something like this:
"Hello, how can I help you?"
"Hi, I have a question about my bottle of Mountain Dew."
"Sure, go right ahead."
"It says 'Attitude sold separately.' Do you know where I can get the attitude?"
"Excuse me, what do you want?"
"I'd like some attitude. Do you know where I can get the attitude?"
"Oh, that's just a slogan. We don't sell any."
"What? How can you disappoint me like this? I need attitude!"
"Believe me sir, you don't need any more of that."
"Oh you know it."
Happiness Sold Separately
This is the title of a novel. It is true—there is no way the book will ever make you happy by itself. Real happiness is the last piece of the puzzle—the one that's always missing. The one that's sold separately.