Not since the days of Ron Popeil selling sprayed-on hair have consumers been as transfixed by an infomercial product as they seem to be with All Star Products’ Snuggie. The Hawthorne, NY-based company—which has also developed and marketed hot-sellers like Strap Perfect, the “Ultimate Bra Strap Solution” (didn’t we solve that problem in the ’60s?)—hit pay dirt with a glorified monk’s robe-meets-straight-jacket that purports to ban couch-potato chills and remote-fumbling spills. And they have been outrageously successful–- to date, over 4 million Snuggies have been sold.

The Snuggie’s incessant, 60-second spots are rooted in classic direct-advertising technique (corny dramatizations, everything-but-the-kitchen-sink, “act-now!” package discounts), while taking on a post-modern catchiness in an era when everyone’s an expert in virtually simulating ironically authentic fervor around cultural shrapnel.

So who better to evaluate the Snuggie’s practical value and larger stronghold on late-night-purchasing consciousness than Sam Reich, Director of Original Content at CollegeHumor and Executive Producer/Director of MTV’s The CollegeHumor Show?

We had Sam hunker down for a few days with the literal security blanket. In his words:

Is it secretly comfortable and amazing to wear the Snuggie privately in your own home? And what ultimately distinguishes it from a standard blanket or sheet?
I hate to be the bearer of bad robes, but the Snuggie isn’t exactly comfortable. It feels like a limp hug, the kind you get from a pretty-but-frigid girl. Frigid is a good word, too. I’d say it raised my temperature a total of one degree. And it’s clingy. Clingy like a holiday sweater. A holiday sweater that trips up your feet.

What activities would you recommend and not suggest while wearing the Snuggie?
Recommended activity: staying completely still. Without any fastener in the back, the Snuggie is like a hospital gown without back-ties. And if there’s one thing more embarrassing than wearing a Snuggie, it’s losing your Snuggie. Not recommended activity: ping-pong. It wasn’t long before the Snuggie was hanging off me like a barber’s apron. It did, however, make a soft padding for the many balls I missed that hit my chest.

Can you picture couples having Snuggie sex in some weird new fetish movement?
When I put on the Snuggie, no one wanted anything to do with me. First, there’s what it does to you physically. It’s the opposite of a bodice. It makes you look like a melting wicked witch. Second, there’s the static electricity. Whenever I touched anyone, I would give them a shock. And not just a little shock, but a visible blue shock, a miniature Street Fighter Hadouken. If people wanted to have sex in this, they would probably also be into nipple clamps.

Does it make you feel at all monk-like when you’re wearing it?
I did look pretty wise. Except I wasn’t wise, since I theoretically just spent $20 on a mail-order bathrobe.

Imagine how heads would have exploded had Vince Offer of ShamWow fame been the promotional face of Snuggie.
There’s probably a combo product to be made. A Snuggie/ShamWow hybrid that soaks up your feces. The ShamWow is absolutely comparable to the Snuggie. These commercials seem to say, “Sure, it’s a sponge, but it’s the best sponge.” The Snuggie is the best blanket. These products aren’t innovative, but they’re the latest and greatest version of something you already have. We need the best of everything. That’s why there’s Godiva chocolate and $50,000 wine and Windows 7.

At the end of the day, Snuggie seems to be the apotheosis of viral culture, impulse-buy habits and pure American laziness. Would you agree?
The Snuggie is a great example of viral marketing. Come up with a product that’s silly and cheap enough to buy on a lark. The Magic Bullet Blender and Hula Chair are just as silly—as if anyone actually makes that much guacamole or expects to wiggle their way to fitness—but they’re big investments by comparison. The Snuggie is marketed in such a way that it’s almost a joke. You can’t tell me the makers actually expect people to wear them to sports games. Imagine how embarrassed that kid would be. “We’re rooting for you, son!” “Jesus, Dad, take off the sleeved duvet.” But in the process of the video being passed around, they’ve found a group of suckers. Waifs who probably weigh less than 100 pounds and wear blankets around the house already. And who knows? These people just might have found their Messiah. At closer to 200 pounds, I’m sticking with holiday sweaters.

- Kenny Herzog


For more Snuggie style, check out SnuggieSightings.com.