An unwanted squatter on my mental real estate

Dear Progressive Insurance,

I don't know whether to commend or curse your ability to colonize large swaths of my consciousness by means of inane radio advertisements. 

Let the record show that I am not now nor have I ever been a Progressive Insurance customer, nor am I in the market for insurance. I've relied on the same trusty insurance agent for 15 years and I don't intend to switch. His rates are reasonable, his service exceptional, and his friendliness top-notch--he'll stop and chat in the grocery store or at a college baseball game, and he never ever ever assaults my eardrums with annoying advertising jingles. So he's my guy, now and for the foreseeable future, and you, Progressive, are not.

Which is why I find it peculiar that I often wake up in the morning thinking (unwillingly) about Progressive Insurance--not because I'm interested in your products but because your stupid radio jingles have weaseled their way into my brain in such a way that I can't stop them from popping into consciousness at the most inopportune moments. I'm lying in bed just barely moving toward alertness, preparing to swing my legs over the side of the bed and feel my way toward the bathroom, when suddenly my internal ear is assaulted by the annoying voice of your spokesperson Flo singing earnestly about the Name-Your-Price Tool ("You show us a budget and we'll show you a range of coverage options"). 

I do not in the remotest degree care about the Name-Your-Price Tool, so why must it invade my morning routine? Likewise, I don't need to be reminded 27 times a day that bundling my home and auto insurance together will make me feel like mayor of Savingsville (yes I will!), a town famous for the world's biggest puppy.  And yet that ridiculous lyric pops into my head while I'm driving to work, walking the dog, or washing the dishes, and I am utterly powerless to prevent its incursions.

How did this happen? I could blame the Cleveland Indians, but it's not the team's fault that you're so heavily invested in their success. I don't mind attending games at Progressive Field, even though I still sometimes refer to it as Jacobs Field. I have no feelings, either positive or negative, about Mr. Jacobs, but I attended some pretty exciting games there when his name was on the field and old habits die hard.

I can visit Progressive Field and enjoy the game in person because your advertisements are not constantly assaulting my eardrums. However, I see the Indians play at Progressive Field maybe once or twice each summer, while the rest of the time I cherish one of the greatest joys of baseball season: listening to the Cleveland Indians game on the radio. (Why is baseball better on the radio than on television? Someone should do a study.) If the Indians are playing, the radio is on--we've even rigged up a very long extension cord connected to a rickety old radio so we can listen to the game while working in the garden. I can't quite explain what's so wonderful about listening to the Indians on the radio on a warm summer evening; somehow, Tom Hamilton's call can make even weeding the garden a not unpleasant task.

But you've ruined all that. How many times during each Indians radio broadcast am I forced to listen to your mind-numbingly dreadful jingles? If someone is close enough to the radio to make it convenient he'll turn it off until the jingle is over, but you've wormed your way so insidiously into my brain that I often hear the jingle in my head even while the radio is off.

Which makes your advertising scheme either incredibly brilliant or incredibly stupid, depending on the goal. If you're trying to persuade me to purchase your products, you've failed miserably since, as I've mentioned, I'm not in the market for insurance products and even if I were I would avoid Progressive out of pure hatred for your ads. On the other hand, if your goal is to stake a claim on a certain percentage of my waking thoughts, you've succeeded admirably. 

So congratulations, Progressive Insurance. You'll never earn my business, but you've successfully colonized a chunk of valuable mental real estate. Now if I can just figure out a way to make you pay rent, we'll both be happy.