RTRRO

type

status

date

The Mount Rushmore of Pitchmen

These weren’t just salespeople. They were personalities. Titans who could turn a potato peeler into a must-have and a treadmill into a ticket to a better you. Masters of the hard sell, but friendly about it—like a neighbor stopping by to show off something life-changing, not just hawk merch.

Ron Popeil: The Inventor, The Innovator, The Godfather

Long before the 90s, Ron Popeil was on TV, basically writing the rulebook for how infomercials work. His lines are still stuck in our heads: “But wait, there’s more!” and “Set it, and forget it!” My dad still quotes those when he’s grilling.

Popeil wasn’t just a guy yelling about gadgets—he invented them. The Veg-O-Matic? Swore it could slice and dice faster than you could blink. My mom had one in the 80s; she says it was the only thing that made chopping onions not a crying fest. Then there was the Showtime Rotisserie & BBQ—countertop size, promised perfect chicken every time. He’d demo it calm, almost professorial, like he was explaining a science experiment, not selling an appliance. You believed him. Not because he was flashy, but because he sounded earnest. Like he’d stayed up nights tweaking the design just to fix your “I burn everything” problem.

He sold 8 million Showtime Rotisseries. Ronco, his company, hit over $1 billion in housewares sales. That’s not luck—that’s knowing how to make people think, “This guy gets me.”

Billy Mays: The High-Octane Human Megaphone

If Popeil was the calm voice of reason, Billy Mays was the guy who showed up to your party and turned it up to 11. That signature blue shirt, khaki pants, and that perfectly trimmed beard—you’d see him pop on screen and think, “Oh, we’re doing this now.” And you’d stay.

“Hi, Billy Mays here!” He’d boom it like he was announcing a concert. His turf? Cleaning and home repair—stubborn stains, leaky pipes, the kind of household chaos that makes you want to scream. He was OxiClean’s biggest fan. Pour it on a stain that looked like it had been there since the 80s, scrub twice, and poof—gone. My mom bought three bottles once, just because he sounded so sure it’d fix the red wine spot on our couch (spoiler: it kind of did).

He sold the Awesome Auger for yard work and Mighty Putty that “could tow a truck.” His thing was demos—pouring, scrubbing, lifting—with this energy that was impossible to ignore. That baritone voice, always amped up? It was his superpower. He didn’t just sell products—he believed in them. And for 30 minutes, you did too.

Susan Powter: The Platinum-Blond Preacher of “Stop the Insanity!”

Early 90s, fitness got a wake-up call. Enter Susan Powter: spiky platinum hair, attitude for days, a self-proclaimed former 260-pound housewife who’d had enough of diet lies.

“Stop the Insanity!” That was her battle cry. Not just a catchphrase—an uprising against fad diets and workouts that made you feel like garbage. I’d walk in on my mom watching her at 11 p.m., nodding along like Susan was talking directly to her. Her infomercials weren’t about selling a DVD—they were about joining a movement. She paced the stage like a televangelist, voice rising and falling as she preached lean protein, complex carbs, and exercise that didn’t make you want to quit.

She was raw. Honest. No fake smiles, no empty promises. For women tired of yo-yo dieting, she was a hero. Her program—recipes, motivational tapes, all that—made $50 million a year at its peak. Makes sense. When someone says, “I’ve been where you are,” you listen.

Tony Little: The Ponytail-Powered Personal Trainer

Tony Little looked like he was carved out of granite, with a blond ponytail that swayed like it had a mind of its own. He called himself “America’s Personal Trainer,” and man, did he commit. His line? “You can do it!” Boomed with eye contact so intense you’d almost stand up and workout right then.

His big product? The Gazelle—low-impact elliptical, promised a full-body workout without killing your joints. He’d glide on it, muscles flexing, energy endless, surrounded by people who swore it changed their bodies. My cousin bought one. Used it twice, then turned it into a coat rack. But Tony’s vibe? Unstoppable positivity. Like your biggest cheerleader, even at 2 a.m. when you’re eating cereal in sweatpants and feeling out of shape. He made you think, “Maybe I can do it.” That’s the magic of him.

A Showcase of Unforgettable Products

The pitchmen were the stars, but the products? They’re the ones we still joke about. Quirky. Bizarre. Always presented like the solution to a problem you never knew existed.

The Flowbee: A Haircut and a Vacuum in One

A vacuum attached to clippers. Sounds like a dad’s bad DIY project, right? But Rick Hunts—some carpenter—invented it, and suddenly it was late-night gold. The idea: the vacuum sucks your hair up, the blades trim it to a perfect length. No stray clippings. No bad barber days.

The infomercial was genius. People with curly hair, straight hair, long hair—all getting “professional” cuts in five minutes. My uncle bought one. His hair looked… fine. Kinda uneven, but he swore it was “just like the salon.” And get this—astronauts used it on the ISS. Zero gravity doesn’t mix with loose hair clippings, so the Flowbee became space gear. Wild. By 2000, 2 million sold. Who knew a vacuum-haircut hybrid would be a hit?

The Ginsu Knives: So Sharp, They Could Cut Through a Can

They started in the 70s, but ginsu knives were everywhere in 90s infomercials. the sales pitch was simple: these knives were sharp and tough. they could slice a tin can and still cut a tomato paper-thin.

The demos were crazy, but in a good way. a nail? sliced right through. a radiator hose? chopped up easy. the narrator sounded urgent, like he was sharing a secret. then—“but wait, there’s more!” they’d add steak knives and a “6-in-1 kitchen tool” for the same cost.

My grandma had a set. she’d show guests how it worked—slice a soda can, then a tomato, just to prove how good it was.

Between 1978 and 1984, millions of sets sold. it shows a good demo is better than any fancy ad.

The ThighMaster: Squeeze Your Way to Shapely Legs

If you were alive in the 90s, you know the ThighMaster. That little spring-loaded thing, endorsed by Suzanne Somers in a leotard, promising toned inner thighs with a simple squeeze.

The infomercial had Somers and a crew of enthusiastic people squeezing away while watching TV. My sister begged for one for Christmas. Used it for a week—while watching Full House—then it went under her bed. But man, did it feel like a shortcut. No gym, no sweat (okay, maybe a little), just squeeze and get legs like a movie star. In 18 months, 6 million sold. It perfectly captured the 90s vibe: easy, quick, and just a little too good to be true.

The Bowflex: A Home Gym in Your Living Room

For people who wanted more than a ThighMaster, there was Bowflex. That home gym with the weird “Power Rods” that looked futuristic back then. The pitch? Same results as free weights, but easier on your joints.

The infomercials were slick—chiseled models, before-and-after pics of people who “transformed in 6 weeks.” My neighbor bought one. Spent $1,000. He’d tell everyone he was “getting gym results at home,” but I only saw him use it when guests came over. Still, the promise was tempting: 20 minutes a day, three times a week, and you’d look like a fitness model. Who wouldn’t pause and think, “Maybe I could commit to that?”

The George Foreman Grill: Knocking Out the Fat

Two-time heavyweight champ George Foreman put his name on a slanted indoor grill, and suddenly everyone needed one. The “Lean Mean Fat-Reducing Grilling Machine”—catchy, right?

Foreman in the infomercials was pure charm. No tough-guy boxer stuff—just a dad grilling with his kids, fat dripping into a tray like magic. My family had this grill. Used it every Sunday for burgers. We’d lift the lid and go, “Look at all that fat!” Like we were being healthy, even if we loaded the burgers with cheese. It sold 100 million units worldwide. For Foreman, it made more money than his entire boxing career—over $200 million. Not bad for a grill.

The Chia Pet: The Pottery That Grows

“Ch-Ch-Ch-Chia!” That jingle’s still stuck in my head. The Chia Pet started in the 80s, but it was a 90s late-night staple. Little terracotta animals—rams, kittens, even cartoon characters—that grew green “fur” when you watered the chia seeds.

My little brother had a Chia Kitten. We watered it every day, waited for the sprouts. At first, it looked like mold. We freaked out. Then it grew into this fuzzy mess, and we thought it was the coolest thing ever. The commercials were cheap, simple, but effective. To date, 25 million sold. Who knew a grow-your-own pottery pet would stand the test of time?

The Hypnotic Formula of a 30-Minute Commercial

These infomercials didn’t work by accident. They followed a formula—like a secret recipe for making you reach for the phone.

The Enthusiastic Host

Your guide through the chaos. Always smiling, always hyped, like they’re showing you their favorite thing in the world. Not a salesperson—more like a friend who found a hack and has to share it.

The Live Studio Audience

Those people! Gasping at demos like they just saw a unicorn. Applauding testimonials like it’s a Grammy win. Did they get free snacks? Probably. But it worked—you’d think, “If they’re that impressed, maybe I should be too.”

The Incredible Product Demonstrations

The heart of it all. Knife through a shoe. Stain vanishing in 10 seconds. It was magic. You’d lean in, squint at the TV, thinking “Is that real?” Sometimes it was—sometimes… not so much. But who cared? It was fun to watch.

The Glowing Testimonials

“Real people” talking about losing 50 pounds, saving an hour a day, or finally fixing that leaky pipe. My mom would point at the screen and say, “See? It works for her!” Like that meant it’d work for us. These were the emotional hooks—they made you want to be that person.

The Urgent Call to Action

“Operators are standing by!” That countdown timer? Panic mode. “If I don’t call now, I’ll miss out!” Even though they said it every night. But you’d reach for the phone before you realized it.

The “But Wait, There's More!” Offer

The cherry on top. “Buy one, get a second free—just pay shipping!” Shipping was $10, but it felt like a steal. “Two for the price of one!” Never mind the math. It was too tempting to pass up.

It was a symphony of salesmanship. A dance of desire and persuasion that played out on our TVs at 2 a.m.

Looking back, 90s infomercials weren’t just ads. They were entertainment. Silly. Over-the-top. But weirdly comforting. My family still jokes about the Flowbee my uncle bought, or the OxiClean my mom hoarded. They’re little time capsules—reminders of a time when a gadget could feel like a promise.

What about you? Did you or your parents almost buy one? That weird gadget that made you go “maybe…”? Drop it in the comments—I bet we all have a story.