Pitchmen—there also are pitchwomen these days—got their start in the United States somewhere back in the 19th century, but they have probably been around since biblical days. Part of their fascination is the speed with which they talk and the way in which they slide from one bit of logic to another. They never allow you time to really digest or think over thoroughly what they are saying. It somehow sounds right, even if you're not sure it is.

Pitchmen got started in my lifetime when "carnivals" came to town. These traveling shows, which have pretty much disappeared today, used to show up at county fairs or sometimes just out of the blue. They had games of chance, supposedly also games of skill (like throwing a baseball at stacked fake milk bottles or pitching pennies onto plates).

Supposedly if you got the right number of bottles knocked down or landed the proper number of pennies on the right plates, you won a stuffed animal (or something). But not very often.

But pitchmen also pitched the freak show where bearded ladies, three-legged men and other odd creatures were supposed to appear, or they showed up at the carnival equivalent of the burlesque show where tired young ladies sometimes took off some, but seldom all, of their clothing.

Listening to the pitchmen who fronted these various exhibitions always fascinated me—not so much for what they were selling, but how they were pitching their products. It was so fast and so persuasive I wondered how anyone could resist.

I thought when the carnivals stopped coming that the pitchmen had all folded up their tents and gone into retirement. Not so.

They've just adopted modern clothes and are now on television. Most of them inhabit what is known as the infomercial, a half-hour commercial that is billed as information we all need and if not that at least entertainment. And sometimes it is.

There is, for instance, the knife pitchman, who sells you a set of knives, one knife at a time "for the low easy payment of ... " And the guy who pitches a small gas grill you can take anywhere, but which will cook an entire meal. And so on.

The king of the pitchmen, however, is Ron Popeil, the founder of Ronco, who currently is pitching electric rotisseries. There is nothing very revolutionary about them. But Ron makes you think there is.

His big line is "set it and forget it," which means whatever you are cooking once mounted on the rotating cooker runs on a timer. This also is not exactly a wonder. I had a rotisserie just like it that I have long since abandoned. Ron sells his on the grounds that it reduces fat (it falls off), that it is cheap ("three easy payments of $39 ... ") and that he is giving you a lot of other things if you buy it immediately.

This, too, is a pitchman's device: supposedly, something extra for nothing. In Ron's case it's "but wait, there's more ..."—a cookbook, an insulating glove and a plastic injector, a kind of giant syringe (everyone needs one) to inject garlic and other flavorings into the food being cooked. (You have to see it to believe it.)

Ron has made and lost several fortunes at this kind of thing. Over the years he's also marketed an electric pasta maker ("but wait, there's more ... ) and other kitchen equipment.

He's probably king of the TV pitchmen, although I also like the fellow who does the knives. He saws away on a hammer head, slices tomatoes, uses the bread knife in the set, cuts a beer can in two and never stops talking. He, or his equivalent, so entranced our family that we once bought two sets of knives. I will say they have never worn out, but then I've never used any of them on a hammer head.

Ron's knives, pitched by a man who claims he is his cousin, have fancier handles, and Ron throws in a set of steak knives and several other items. (We, I am sorry to say, never got a set of steak knives or a cleaver.)

In any event, it is comforting to know that the pitchmen (and women) are still with us and they are still making sales, even as the snake-oil salesmen of more than a century ago. Makes you tend to believe in free enterprise, the American way and the power of the pitch.

I only wish I were better at it. My audiences all tend to fall asleep the moment I open my mouth.