The grownups, as always, were rude. They laughed at our TV heroes in the 1960s — Batman and Robin, Secret Squirrel, Secret Agent 86 Maxwell Smart, Space Ghost and Lance Link, Secret Chimp and other defenders of justice.

“They’re just trying to sell you toys,” the grownups scoffed.

The grownups, as always, were hypocrites. When we were stuck watching their shows — it was one TV per family back then — we saw a whole army of their heroes during the commercials. And every one of them was selling something.

There was Mr. Clean, a muscular bald guy with an earring. Bald and earrings for guys were cool. We weren’t going to criticize. Mr. Clean not only knew how to scrub, er, rub you out, he knew all the tricks of sanitizing the evidence with his all-purpose cleaner.

“Mom, does Mr. Clean know about Josephine the Plumber?”

“Shh.”

Josephine the plumber was a woman who wore white bib overalls and a white ball cap with the bill turned up. She carried a wrench and a tube of Comet all-purpose cleanser.

“Maybe Mr. Clean should marry Josephine the Plumber,” I suggested. “Then they can invent a superstar cleaner.”

“Shh.”

Josephine talked almost as much as Madge the Manicurist, whose secret weapon to beat the evils of something called “Dishpan Hands” was Palmolive dish soap.

“Ew. Why would anyone want to buy soap?”

“Burton William, pipe down. We can’t hear the show.”

“Those ladies talk too much. Josephine needs to marry Mr. Clean, because he never says anything. Madge can marry the Jolly Green Giant. He only says, ‘Ho, ho, ho.'”

“The commercials are over. We’re trying to hear the show.”

The next commercial break featured a miniature yachtsman who liked to swirl around toilet tanks in a toy motorboat. He wanted the grownups to buy Ty-D-Bol.

Then there was Mr. Whipple, a guy in an apron who kept fussing at ladies to stop squeezing the Charmin toilet paper.

“Mom, how come the Maytag Repairman doesn’t stock toilet paper in his shop? Then lots of ladies would come to squeeze the rolls and the Maytag guy wouldn’t be so lonely.”

Grownups claimed that the George of Jungle and The Banana Splits didn’t make any sense, but their shows were chock full of spots like Charlie the Tuna who was upset that no one would turn him into a fish sandwich.

That was as weird as the kid who kept singing that he wished he was an Oscar Mayer Weiner so that everyone would fall in love with him.

And what was up with the Michelin Man, who appeared to be a giant marshmallow selling tires? Or the ladies with black eyes, who, while smoking cigarettes, said they’d rather fight than switch.

And the grownups thought the Herculoids or Captain Caveman made no sense? Scooby-Doo, where are you?

“Mom, what would happen if the Jolly Green Giant poked Poppin’ Fresh’s belly. Would the Pillsbury Doughboy still giggle or would he say, ‘Ho, ho, ho’?

“Why doesn’t the Ty-D-Bol man play in the bathtub? It’s too dark, too small and too icky inside the toilet tank.

“Mom, who do you think Mr. Clean would like more, Josephine the Plumber or Rosie the Waitress? Rosie has Bounty paper towels. Mr. Clean could use those when he’s fixing the mess.

“Who’d win if the Hawaiian Punch guy had a fight with the Kool-Aid Man?”

A few minutes later, as I sat in my room, where I’d been sent (I didn’t want to watch their dumb shows anyway), I realized that grownups have their heroes, but they don’t have any patience. And they really like Speedy Alka Seltzer. Plop, plop, fizz, fizz.

Tell Burt about his ring around the collar at burton.w.cole@gmail.com.