"We interrupt our regular scheduled program to bring you this special bulletin..."
Your Pope is stumped.
And pray tell, oh learned and wise Pope Guy, is that painful?
Only when I try to think.
(Did you guys know that the word "reformer" backwards is "remrofer"? I would imagine that would be pronounced REM-RO-PHER, as in rhymes with "gopher", which is a part of the ebert family. Not Roger's, the family of the small, furry two-headed mammal from Lower Zimbabwe with an ginormous sex organ, although it's not Lower Zimbabwe with the super-johnson, come on, a country can't have a sex organ of any size, well, unless you think of Bill Clinton as the human embodiment of a penis, then maybe, but no, it's the ebert that has a ginormous sex organ, and it's the ebert family to which the common, ordinary gopher is related, on the mother's side of the family I believe. You're free to come up with whatever pronunciation you like; mine was just a suggestion. I'm easy, although I wouldn't want that to get around.)
I am REALLY glad I got that out of my system.
No, children, your Pope and Fearless Leader, (please see my post from 4/3, "Rocky And Bullwinkle Meet H. G. Wells" for an explanation of the term "Fearless Leader"), is completely at a loss to explain quantum physics; never studied it, don't understand it and I'm pretty sure most of the topics covered under "Quantum Physics" ought to be labeled "Magic". Not Johnson, but as in "alakazam".
The other thing I am completely stumped about is this proliferation (boy, there's a meaty word if I ever heard one) of commercials on TV and in the various media regarding ED, and I'm glad there's an acronym that I can use so I don't have to type the actual words. (Eeewhewwwww.)
(whispering) Okay, erectile dysfunction. (normal voice) You happy now?
Now I don't watch "network" television per se, like "Desperate Housewives" or "24" or "The Evening News" or the 298 "reality" shows that currently clog the airwaves. No, I'm a sports and an occasional movie TV person, and I don't watch commercials either. (Game goes to break, mute sound, open book, read until game comes back on, mark place, turn off mute. Works like a champ, and I can rub my belly and pat my head at the same time as well.) But I do "see" (just don't hear) all the ads for Viagra, Cialis and all the no-name phony nostrums that just about anybody with an IQ over a head of lettuce knows are phony, but hope springs eternal in the human breast so they keep on buying them, and it just seems a bit too much.
First off, when did it become okay to air our personal sexual laundry in public? I am by NO means a prude (ask my herd of sheep) but come on, guys, do I have to hear with such depressing frequency how I can, at the ripe old age of 568, obtain and maintain a woody the size of a sequoia if I'll just drop $80 Gazillion (in three easy payments of $26.6666667 Gazillion each) for the wonderful products that are being displayed on my television screen. And by the implication of these ads, that the majority of the males in this country over the age of 50 apparently couldn't get a boner if someone pointed a Glock 9 at their heads. (Of course, any guy that can get it up under those circumstances is maybe just a little screwed up in La Cabeza, which is Lower Zimbawean for "crazier than a shithouse rat".)
What a bunch of tumescent, wussy boys the middle-aged men in America have become; if the sheer number of these ads is any indication, no one in the AARP has seen a hard-on since Woodstock.
Second, what's even worse to me is the way they depict "seniors", and "sex"; I love the one where the "older couple" (probably early to mid-50's), are painting the kitchen and at one point, he, backing up to look at something on the wall he's working on, gently nudges into her, and she, suddenly overwhelmed with menopausal passion, turns and gives big boy the ol' evil eye, and begins rubbing up against him in what is either a sexy, salacious attempt to seduce him, or a clumsy try at wiping the paint off his shirt with her stomach. He immediately begins drooling, because let's face it, he hasn't gotten it up, or any, in a coon's age, which is about 568, as I recall, and his interest is, shall we say, piqued?
Fortunately, the commercial fades to another scene before acres of flabby, stretch-marked, middle-aged skin could be exposed, as he and she begin groping each other in a mildly disgusting parody of teenage passion and desire.
Gettin' it on at the old folks home, yeehaw.
(There was a picture on the 'Net the other day of Paul McCartney standing alongside his just announced fiance, a very pretty woman who's name I don't remember; I do remember that the article said she was 51 years of age, which is a lot closer to Sir Paul's age (68) than the last one, who was a senior in high school as I recall. The other thing I WAY too vividly remember about the picture was suddenly realizing, after some closer scrutiny, that Sir Paul, that's right, Paul McCartney, bass-player and general cutie-pie of the Beatles, half of Lennon-McCartney...was wearing a rug. And as the image flashed, unwanted and unsolicited, into my head of a BALD Paul McCartney, the world tilted slightly on its axis for a brief moment, and I fainted.)
(Eeewhewwwww.)
But what's worst about these ads is the way they depict middle-agers who have been momentarily seized by passion, like Mrs. Painter above; there's one where some slightly graying guy, I assume to look "friskier" than his years, slides down a banister whilst chasing his lady fair around the house. He has a gleam in his eye and evil in his heart (or at least his pants, and the implication from the maker of whatever product the ad was hawking was that their product could put a tiger in your tank, a car in every garage, a chicken in every pot and a stallion in your Dockers), and if he can just get his hands on Mrs. C'mere, Big Boy, it's full blast and top down, balls to the wall, you'll pardon the expression. Geez, whatever happened to good taste and decorum? (Yeah, right, we're talking TV, current media and popular culture; good luck with the decorum thing.)
But I figured, hey, there's 827 grazillion Boomers in the country these days, with more coming into middle/older age all the time, assuming they're not dying off in mass quantities, something I think I would have heard about by now, so why shouldn't the All John All The Time World Church and the Pope Dude get up on the bandwagon as well, so I decided to create and market my own brand of "picker-upper" or better yet, "pecker picker-upper". (I made that one up all by myself; aren't you proud?)
Tentatively, here's what I'm thinking of calling it:
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
Flows right off the tongue, wouldn't you say?
And the advertising will drastically change the image of the sex-crazed but limp-in-the-trousers image that so permeates current ads on similar products these days. Our ads will show real, manly men with johnsons the size of table legs, only using *Rip-A-Dick* to enhance that with which nature has already blessed them. Large, strong and mostly smelly older guys, with slabs for arms and beach balls for stomachs, will lie about, watching TV in their undershirts and belching, showing interest in "making whoopee with the ol' lady" only every blue moon, or about as often as politicians tell the truth, but boy, when it's time, look out mama, I'm going in, there's no doubt that these tough, manly dudes will be able to rise to the occasion. With just a little help, a small boost, from the older guy's PED...
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
(FYI, the term "PED" that I used above (see above) means Performance Enhancing Drug in "sportsese", you know, like the PEDs that Barry Bonds never, ever used, even though, in his early 30's, he gained 489 pounds of muscle, acne like a chocolate-addicted teenager, pupils the size of BBs and, according to his ex-girlfriend's testimony at his perjury trial, a bad case of shriveling testicles and "limp-in-the-trousers", all of which are symptoms of psoriasis. If what the ex- said was true, Harry Homerun was a prime candidate for...
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
(Popephone rings)
"PJTT...hey, Mike, how are you?...sorry, I had to turn down the TV, what was that?...oh, Harley's watching a movie...his favorite, "Lady And The Tramp"...what?...why not?...come on, Mike, it's nothing...you're kidding...no...no, it's not "tacky", it's funny...I don't care, I'm posting it...THERE'S NOTHING WRONG WITH SAYING RIP-A-DICK, IT'S A JOKE, FOR CRISSAKE...no, I'm not...FOUR tickets to the Dodgers/Giants game and a parking pass?...okay, I'll change it (large sigh of resignation here)...yeah, okay...yeah, call me later, and lemme' know what the line is on tonight's Celtics/Heat game...yeah, okay, gotta' go."
Shit.
That was my consigliore, the Right Reverend Monsignor Michael Jordan (no, that's the OTHER MJ); he tells me that the Bored of Elders of the AJATTWC says I can't talk about, well, you know, that stuff I was talking about earlier, like the pee-pees and nays-nays stuff. I'm told I must "remember the image of the AJATTWC".
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
*Rip-A-Dick*
Who's childish?
Hey, Barry, the Harley Dog and I are headed over to the drugstore, do you need anything while we're there? I hear they have a WHOLE section of products for "older" guys like you who have certain, well, I can't just blurt it out, but, you know, certain problems with their "manhood", shall we say? I got a buddy tells me that...
*Rip-A-Dick*
...stuff works pretty good, can I get you a couple dozen cases?
Love and testosterone (or a lack thereof),
PJTT
copyright 2011 Krissongs, Inc.
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