Over a bowl of saucy pasta I tell my fellow diner that the late Bob Ross is apparently an accidental ASMR star: his quiet, soporific voice paints bliss on the canvas of overwrought, stressed souls. My companion blurts past a mouthful of spaghetti, eyes wide, What do YOU know about ASMR? WHY do you know about ASMR?
According to my informed source, a big chunk of ASMR (autonomous sensory meridian response, or ‘brain massage’) is situated in a smutty, shadowy corner of the internet reserved for perverts who do all sorts of things to themselves while listening to recordings of other people slurping, sucking, chewing, whispering, scrunching up a packet, opening a zipper, vacuuming etc. (innovative creators of said sounds have special recording equipment, I’m told).
Well, well, well, I say, I don’t know what corner of the internet these pleasure seekers are trawling, but it’s not my slice of web heaven.
As far as I’m concerned, ASMR features a soft, soothing, even voice that drones on about any darn subject and unintentionally (as in the case of Bob Ross), or intentionally, gets you to a relaxed, happy place where you drift, on a cloud of gentle, feathery consonants and vowels, to the land of Nod.
The conversation had me in stitches, as did the latent ASMR potential hiding in the sleek contours of my Verimark Floorwiz Double Sided Spray Mop; a potential my son later uncovered and featured when doing a routine clean-up of his pet rat’s man cave located under a bed.
My presence is preferably required during this strategic, smelly clean-up operation. I’m a spectator, and my son does his best to entertain and converse to keep me from getting bored and yawning. I’m an appreciative audience, but on this occasion, I was also a snorting, snickering one.
My Floorwiz Spray Mop revealed a personality and characteristics I had previously failed to notice. Would you believe Mop has a courtship ritual? My son demonstrated this by encouraging Mop to sidle up to a table leg and do a few swiveling maneuvers to impress, after which the leg was sprayed with a fine, irresistible detergent mist.
Having sprayed, Mop slid ever so slowly across the floor, stood still and, when my son imperceptibly squeezed Mop’s trigger, a dribble emerged, accompanied by a prolonged Mop squeak (a bit of dodgy ASMR right there).
I doubled over with laughter. Mop’s vocals were identical to the squeaking bath toy sounds a male tortoise I used to know (his name was, and probably still is, Captain) made when he mounted a profoundly bored and long-suffering Old Girl (she wasn’t old at all) or the hard-to-get Choo-Choo (she’d run out of puff and wanted only to munch her lettuce; maybe the crisp crunching was a real turn on for Captain? Tortoise grade ASMR?)
Mop looked positively lecherous as he glided, in his shaggy green suit, from one corner of the room to another corner to accost an unsuspecting piece of skirting board lying motionless against the wall.
Oh dear, it was funny. My stomach muscles hurt from laughing too hard.
Any-hoo, allow me to type an ASMR goodbye; you can mop up your mirth-tears before you nod off…
A whispered farewell
floats over green, pastured dell,
on hot, vibrating drum,
infection sets in,
hear a thing
in this pink, throbbing
for you are numb