Free comedy and character commercial scripts

There were twelve. Now there is one. It sits alone in the tin. Golden. Buttery. Unguarded. Three people in this house know it's there. Only one of them is you. Crumbhaven Biscuits. May the fastest hand win.

Hi. I'm Barley. The Oat Barons bear. Forty years on the same box. Do I like the cereal? Yes. Fine. It's delicious. Crunchy honey clusters. Happy now? Oat Barons. Eat them. I'm going back to bed.

Hi. I'm a sponge. I live by your sink. I have seen lasagna pans you would not believe. But I'm a Scrubwhistle. I don't shred. I don't stink. I don't quit. Put me in, coach. Scrubwhistle.

HEY! YOU! THE BIGGEST, LOUDEST, MOST UNBELIEVABLE DEALS OF THE— [SFX: a soft click] ...there. Ahh. That's much better. Mufflebud noise-cancelling earbuds. For the bus, the open office, the neighbour's leaf blower, and commercials like that one.

Hear ye! Hear ye! By order of the household, a pizza hath been summoned! Large. Extra cheese. Half pineapple, as the youngest prince demanded. It rides now, hot, upon a moped. Crustfall Pizza. Long live the crust.

This September. One sandwich. Packed at six forty-five in the morning. Left in a warm locker until noon. Everyone said the yogurt wouldn't make it. Everyone said the apple would go brown. They were wrong. Coolcarry. The insulated lunchbox that keeps the cold stuff cold, the warm stuff warm, and the crusts exactly where you left them. Rated L, for Lunch. Coolcarry Lunchboxes. Now showing in backpacks everywhere.

Hi. I'm the guy who reads the super-fast part at the end of phone commercials. I've trained for years. Forty words in four seconds. But Tinycan Mobile has one flat monthly price. No contract. No surprise fees. So there's... nothing for me to read. I did warm up, though. Tinycan Mobile. One price. That's it. That's the whole thing. ...See store for details? No? There's no store? Okay.

To match, or not to match. That is the question. Whether 'tis nobler in the drawer to suffer the lonely, holey sock of outrageous laundry, or to take arms against a sea of singles, and, by Pairwell, end them. Pairwell socks clip together in the wash. They go in paired. They come out paired. Alas, poor left sock. I knew him well. Pairwell Socks. Exit, pursued by nobody.

In four hundred feet, turn right. You did not turn right. That's fine. I'm recalculating. I'm always recalculating. In two hundred feet, make a U-turn. Or, and I'm just putting it out there, you could have turned right. Take your time. I'll wait. I always wait. Nudgemap. Live traffic, lane guidance, speed alerts, and a voice that is honestly doing its very best. You have arrived. Eventually. Nudgemap. We'll get there. Together.

Hi, friends. Welcome back. Today, we're just going to relax together. Close your eyes. Breathe in. I'm gently opening a box of Brittlebee sea salt crackers. Listen to that soft little rustle of the paper sleeve. And now, very, very gently, we're going to take one tiny bite. [SFX: an enormous, ear-splitting CRUNCH] ...Okay. So that was not relaxing. Brittlebee Crackers. The crunchiest cracker we know how to make. Sorry about your ears.

Hey. It's me. Your mattress. It's eleven forty-five. You're on the couch, watching a documentary about... canals? I'm not mad. I'm just here. Cool sheets. Pillows fluffed. The good blanket's out. You've got an early meeting. You said so yourself. Out loud. To the cat. Loftnest. Zoned support, a cover that stays cool, and a hundred-night trial. Come to bed. The canals will still be there tomorrow.

He had circled the lot four times. The mall was full. The sun was merciless. In the back seat, the ice cream had begun to weep. And then, like a legend whispered by his father's father, he saw it. A space. Near the door. Not a compact space. A real one. Lotwhisper shows open spots near you in real time, so every trip can end like a legend. Lotwhisper. Your space is waiting.

I've roped cattle. I've broke horses. I've slept on open ground in a hailstorm. Nothin' prepared me for downward dog. My granddaughter signed me up. Said it'd loosen me up. She was right. Don't tell her. Now I do it every mornin' on my Dustrider mat. Thick enough for old knees. Grippy enough I don't slide off it like a greased pig. Dustrider Yoga Mats. Saddle up. Then lie down.

Alright, listen up! You went hard this week! Meetings! Emails! That spreadsheet! Now I want you in that recliner, and I want you to do nothing! Lean back! Further! Feet up! Is that the best you can relax? I've seen coat hangers more relaxed! Slouchwell power recliners. One button. Full recline. A cupholder on each side. Now hit the showers! Actually, no! Stay there! Great work!

Good evening. Tonight's tale begins in an ordinary kitchen, with an ordinary family, and a bowl of leftover chili. Pushed to the back. Behind the pickles. Forgotten. Three weeks later, someone lifted the lid. [SFX: a distant scream] They say it's still in there. Growing. Learning. Snugtop containers seal airtight, stack neatly and come in clear glass, so nothing hides at the back. Snugtop. Sleep well. Label your leftovers.

Here, in the half-light of a Saturday, we find the teenager in its natural habitat. It has not emerged in fourteen hours. But hark. A scent drifts beneath the door. Golden. Crisp. Maple. The toaster has spoken. And slowly, blinking at the light, the creature appears. It does not speak. It merely points. Waffleby frozen waffles. Ready in minutes. Irresistible to every species. Even this one.

I am Bjorn of Longship Movers! For too long, the movers of this land have treated your belongings like plunder! Not we! We carry your grandmother's china like the treasure of kings! We wrap your sofa in blankets thick as a winter pelt! We lift! We haul! We do not pillage! Local and long distance. Free quotes. Very strong men and women. Longship Movers! We conquer only the stairs!

[Music bed: a lonely saxophone] The kitchen was quiet. Too quiet. The kind of quiet that means somebody's had spaghetti. I'd seen a lot of counters in my time. Clean ones. Dirty ones. The ones that look clean until you put your elbow down. This one had a story. A ring of coffee. A smear of jam. And a sticky patch nobody would own up to. I asked the kid. He said it was the dog. The dog wasn't talking. Dogs never do. So I reached for the one partner I trust. Shamus Multi-Surface Spray. She cuts through grease like a bad alibi. She works on granite, laminate, stovetops, and that mystery patch by the toaster. And she leaves nothing behind but a faint smell of lemon and justice. Two sprays. One wipe. Case closed. The kid still says it was the dog. Shamus. Every mess has a story. We end it.

Summer. And across the suburbs, a great migration begins. From garages and sheds, the males emerge, drawn by ancient instinct, and by the smell of the neighbour's sausages. Here, a mature specimen approaches the grill. He wears the ceremonial apron. It reads 'Kiss the Cook'. No one ever has. He fans. He pokes. He consults no instructions. He is, he insists, a natural. But the coals will not light. The children grow restless. The potato salad is warming. And then, a change. He reaches for a bag of Glowpile Charcoal. Glowpile briquettes light with a single match and are ready to cook on in about fifteen minutes, with a steady, even heat that lasts the whole party. The burgers sizzle. The herd gathers. He accepts their praise with quiet dignity, as though it was always going to go this way. It was not. Glowpile Charcoal. Nature's way of saving dinner.

In the beginning, there was the remote. It was with them always. On the arm of the sofa. Within reach. Faithful. Then, one Sunday, it was gone. They searched the cushions. They searched beneath the cushions. They searched the realm beyond the cushions, where the coins and the popcorn go. Brother turned against brother. 'You had it last.' 'I did not have it last.' The dog was questioned. The dog was released without charge. Night fell. The game was starting. Hope was fading. And then, from somewhere deep in the laundry basket, a sound. [SFX: a small, cheerful chirp] Pingpip. The tiny tracker that sticks to your remote, your keys, your wallet, or whatever your family loses most. Tap the app, and it chirps until you find it. They found the remote. They found the car keys. They found a sock, missing since spring. Peace returned to the land. Pingpip Trackers. End the search.

Day four hundred and twelve. I have been deployed to the kitchen again. Cereal. Always cereal. The small human watched me work today. He dropped another piece directly in my path. He thinks this is a game. It is not a game. It is my life's work. Eleven hundred hours. The cat rode on my back for three laps of the lounge. I allowed it. We have an understanding. Fourteen hundred hours. I mapped the ground floor, avoided the stairs, and emptied myself into my dock. Hands-free. You're welcome. Seventeen hundred hours. Someone left a sock under the sofa. I have not reported it. It is mine now. The Scurrybot robot vacuum learns your home, cleans on a schedule and empties itself, so you can forget about the floor. Day four hundred and thirteen. I heard someone say the word pancakes. Pray for me. Scurrybot. It's got this.