Is That a Doctor's Prescription In Your Pocket, Or Are You Just Happy to See Me?
There's a commercial that's been getting heavy-play during the NCAA basketball tournament, and, as a result, it's now seared onto my brain, replacing several particularly haunting childhood traumas. You've probably seen it -- guy arrives at a party, espies his wife across the room and starts heading toward her. But the poor schmoe can't walk five steps without someone blocking his path and demanding to know what's different about him. Lose some weight? Dye your hair? Get a new job? The guy demurs and keeps walking, only to be stopped by another prying busybody. New clothes? New glasses? New exercise routine? No, no, and no, Scoop. Buzz off. So the guy finally reaches his wife and lets her, and by extension us, know why he was late to the party -- he stopped by the doctor and picked up that prescription for Viagra she's been nagging him to get.
I understand the point of the commercial. Once you screw up your courage and ask your doctor to prescribe you some of that Viagra, the commercial is saying, friends, colleagues, and passersby will be awed and dumfounded by your now effusive confidence and virility. I get it, OK, Pfizer?
Or at least, I would understand the point of the commercial if I didn't have the mental capacity of a seventh grader. Because each time I see that commercial -- and have I mentioned I see it a lot? -- I keep waiting for the same exchange.
"Hey, Bob. New diet?"
"Been working out lately?"
"Have you switched to contacts?"
"Oh. Because I couldn't help notice your raging erection..."
"And that's, like, totally new for you."
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