Billy Mays, who sadly passed away this summer at age fifty, was a pot-bellied, black-bearded Atlantic City carnival barker in a blue long-sleeves over a white undershirt.
He had a loud, shrill, and annoyingly exuberant voice. And he seemed to lean forward, through the TV screen, and put his nose in your face, the way only pitchmen do.
Madison Avenue style brand marketers who believe asking for an order even once, unless it’s in small grey type, is undignified, contemptible and just plain bad manners, absolutely loathed him.
