Sunday, July 5, 2015
Before I begin, I’d just like to reiterate that, as I mentioned during my physical last week, I do not suffer from Erectile Dysfunction. As everyone knows, all statements made during a physical are done so under oath, and violators can face up to 12 years in jail or public stoning in the town square. [Editor’s Note: No one knows that, because it’s not true.]
On my way home from Raleigh, NC, where I watched the United States Women’s National Team defeat Japan in the World Cup of Lady Soccer, a commercial for one of the many remedies for male-pattern invirility came on the radio. These types of advertisements, while pleasantly absent during the Women’s World Cup, were all too commonplace during the NBA Finals, March Madness, The SuperBowl, The World Series of Poker, and The Scripps National Spelling Bee. (“Scripps, where words aren’t the only things that are hard”…is a slogan which they, inexplicably, turned down.) [Editor’s Note: I wouldn’t say “inexplicably”. Their concerns were quite splicable.]
The problem with these advertisements, other than bringing to light that which should stay cloaked in the warm blanket of denial, is that they paint an unrealistic picture of erectile dysfunction. Man sees his significant other painting a bench, planting flowers, eating Cracker Jacks at a youth league baseball game, sitting in side-by-side bathtubs in the backyard, or buying a Fiat; knowing glance; and, next thing you know, implied sexual encounter. That’s just not realistic. First of all, who’s buying a Fiat? It can only be explained by sudden blood loss, or, more accurately, blood redirection. Secondly, where’s the awkwardness? The fumbling? The following skit outlines what I imagine (Again, no direct knowledge. Seriously, it’s like “Terminator: Rise of the Machines” down there.) a typical evening of a man suffering from erectile dysfunction to be like.
The scene: A man at dinner with a woman for whom he has strong feelings. He has yet to mention her to his parents, but his boys know she’s hot. Hotter than his ex. The ex what did him wrong…so wrong!
Woman: “This has been a lovely evening. I’m so glad we came here.”
Woman: “It’s been really great getting to know you. Thanks for not pressuring me. I’ve made the mistake of moving too quickly in the past and I promised myself that, going forward [words…]”
Man: “Hey, ya gotta…Am I right?”
Woman: “Anyway, I think I’m ready to take things to the next level.”
Man (sits up straight, eyes forward): “Wait…what?”
Woman: “I just feel so comfortable with you.”
Man: “Me, too. Can you excuse me? I need to use the facilities,” he says before getting up and leaving the woman at the table alone with her thoughts…and cellphone…and, therefore, various social media apps.
Man comes back to the table after emptying his bladder, ingesting a pill, checking his breath, and thoroughly washing his hands. (He may not be an employee, but he also wasn’t raised by wolves…unhygienic wolves, because normal wolves wash their hands.)
Man: “So, did you want to get dessert? Preferably one that takes no longer than 30 – 45 minutes to order and consume?”
Man: “What? We’re still going to…next level…”
Woman: “How can I possibly think about being intimate when [something tragic about the children, animals, the environment, or celebrity breakup]???”
Man: “Isn’t being close with someone just the thing in light of the [situation at hand]? Besides—wait are you serious about not leveling up, or is this one of those ‘You just want to know that I’m sensitive to what’s important to you’ things that’ll blow over by the time the flan arrives? By the way, I ordered flan.”
Woman: “I just don’t think I can give my whole self to anyone in my current mood.”
Man (frantically searching for SNL clips, videos of adorable animals doing adorable things with adorable children, or pertinent quotes from the Dalai Lama): “Are you serious right now? I don’t want to be ‘that guy’, but if you’re serious, things are going to get really awkward in about 20 – 35 minutes…and, according to the label, could remain awkward for up to four hours. If awkwardness lasts for longer than four hours, I will need to seek medical attention. And while we’re on the subject, who settled on four hours as the cut-off? I mean, who has four hours of material???? I got asthma!”
[Editor’s Note: Seriously. Who has four hours of material? Just to set expectations, if I go for four hours, it’s gonna be like a 1990s rap album: 30 minutes of original material mixed in with a bunch of remixes and questionable skits…and, afterwards, you’ll be asking yourself, “What DIDN’T make the album?!?!”]
Woman (completely focused on the news of the day by this point): “Sigh.”
Waiter: “Here’s your flan. Enjoy.”
Man: “Thanks. Can I get the chocolate mousse?”
Waiter: “That’ll take about an hour given the backlog in the kitchen.”
Man: “I got time.”
Once again, I must reiterate that the above skit was a complete work of fiction and not based on actual events. My testosterone levels are, and I quote, “exceptional”. [Editor’s Note: He’s quoting himself. So…grain of salt.] It’s like "Sharknado" down there...if "Sharknado" were about testosterone rather than…whatever the hell "Sharknado" was about.