The Billy Mays Addiction

I was hunched over in my garage, the stench of chemicals unbearable yet comforting. How long had I been there? Hours, days, weeks? I can see now that it didn't matter at that point. I was only interested in getting the next fix of my precious OrangeGlo. It had been three years since in a moment of manic curiosity from the dizzying high borne of yet another succesful infomercial season, that I'd decided to see if OrangeGlo really did taste like oranges.
To my surprise, it tasted like a mix of pine sol and antifreeze. The searing pain covered over the heaviness left in my heart after the mayonnaise incident. At first, I was happy to merely enjoy a glass each morning with my raisin roundie. Then I was slipping in the odd nightcap, while dozing off to my megaomnibus of ziggy cartoons. At the time, I think I was the only one who didn't realize my addiction. The signs were all there, the orange stained beard, horribly seared mouth and esophagus, Mr. Mittens empty food bowl. And then there were the lies, oh, the tangle web of deceit! Before I knew it, I was only packing 11 bottles into each 12 bottle order. I was hoping that the customer would be so impressed with the product that they wouldn't notice my transgression. Then it became 10, then 9, then eventually I stopped filling orders at all, choosing instead to sit in a lawnchair in my garage in my underwear, drinking OrangeGlo from when I woke up until I passed out in the chemical haze and burn.
It was that day in the garage that I knew something had to be done. After a year of intensive treatment at the Mr.Clean Clinic, I have finally broken free. I now know that the world of infomercials is a dark mistress, and that in order to dodge her absynthe tongue, I must begin selling products that will only bring good to the world. With that out of the way, I am Billy Mays and if these Zorbeez aren't the most delicious pancakes you have ever had, I'll give you your money back!