Long, long ago, when we moved to Iowa, I started jogging with a passion, so much passion that I subscribed to Runner's World. It's hilarious to think of it now--me reading Runner's World. Passion be darned, I'm no better outfitted to be a marathoner than a ballerina. Reading that magazine was pure fantasy.
Maybe two years ago already, I think I already surpassed my personal quota of Viagra commercials. I've seen enough. I just shouldn't have to see any more--there ought to be a law.
Impotence, I'm sure, is no picnic; but it's difficult for me to believe that the incessant "male enhancement" ads on TV are in any way, shape, or form indicative of the rate of impotence among paunchy old American men. Maybe I'm wrong, but I think Viagra is just another Runner's World, a fantasy for old bucks--and a cash cow for pharmaceutical companies.
So here's a scenario. Someday soon, midday too, I come home to my wife and tell her that I've got this plan. "You know the old Vander Meer place, that abandoned farm on the blacktop to Hudson? I've got a couple of great old clawfoot tubs out there full of bubble bath just sitting on the yard, no one around. How's about right now you and me gettin' naked and sittin' out there and holdin' hands under the spreading chestnut trees?"
She'd smile, walk into the living room, call about a half dozen of our close friends, and beg them to come over for an intervention. Either that or 911.
Or how about that other one? First, this geeky Santa Claus with the enhanced package hauls out his driver (it's almost impossible to avoid double entendres here--I mean the golf club) and whacks a 300-yard drive. Then the voice-over asks a room full of also-ran, bald, fat guys, "How many of you would like to try some male enhancement?" and four or five of them raise their hands meekly, as if they're coming out of the closet.
That's the one that features TV's most imprudent phallic symbol--the North Pole--and a bevy of unlikely middle-aged babes, all of whom are somehow in line to beg Santa's favors, I guess, but who squeeze and squirm thier bunsies when they whisper to each other about what's really there in Santa's enhanced lap. (I know I'm going too far, but I'm trying to control myself.)
And can we just put a ban on any talk of four-hour erections? Where is Groucho when we need him? Can you imagine him taking a healthy slug of Cialis and running around the way he used to? I'd pay premium for that show.
Are there really that many men in need? There must be, right? How else could all those companies pour all those bucks into incessant commercials? What I'd like to know is, how many of the wives of those paunchy old duffers really want their husbands toting loaded guns around anymore?
"Quick, call this number today and we'll send you--free!--a two-weeks' supply of topical rush." Topical rush? I don't even want to know.
I better shuttup. I'm not getting any younger. And the fact is--I'm a little reluctant to admit it--but there are two claw-foot tubs in our house. I'd have to rent the football team to get them out the bathrooms, but where there's a will, there's a way, I guess. And where there isn't, there's Viagra.
Don't touch that phone.