I fear I am losing touch with reality. I’m trying to get a grip, although that’s a poor choice of phrase to use here.
For weeks I thought the commercial for Enzyte was a spoof from Saturday Night Live. Familiar with that one? For goodness’ sakes, don’t Google it. I’ll give you some key words: length, girth, firmness, size. It’s the commercial with creepy Bob standing in an elevator, smiling broadly because of his chemically inflated. . . um. . . ego.
I wouldn’t get on an elevator with creepy Bob. Furthermore, Bob’s “wife” in the commercial would be someone I’d avoid at a cocktail party. I’ve known those types. She’s either going to inquire whether I have been saved or want to know if I have multiple orgasms.
I’m more of a Have you tried the stuffed mushrooms? type conversationalist.
So many unanswered questions! Who is the target audience for these idiotic commercials? Is it a different demographic from the one with the Cialis bathtub people? As the water in those tubs turns cold, is the four-hour warning still necessary? Do the pharmaceutical companies get their writers from Comedy Central?
I have read that there is a class action suit against Enzyte’s manufacturer, Berkeley Premium Nutraceuticals. (pausing here for you to read that name again. I’m not making it up.) Someone is suing them for stiffing customers with their inflated claims of product effectiveness.
To this day, I can’t remember whether the ad for the commemorative plates featuring Tiger Woods’ sex partners was part of a real commercial or a comedy spoof. I mean, I’d think spoof, but then again, I’d say that about the black and white commercial featuring a gloomy Tiger and a voiceover of his deceased daddy asking what he learned from his experiences. The first time I saw that, I thought it was somebody trying to be funny in dreadfully bad taste. Now I realize it’s someone with dreadfully bad taste not trying to be funny. Stephen Colbert explained it well.
I don’t care if Tiger plays golf, but I’d like the news to focus on something else. Tiger was profane on the golf course? That’s real news? Keep the microphone out of his face and turn off the cameras. Problem solved.
Oprah was in our neighborhood last week to interview Rielle Hunter.
Just when I’d begun to hope they’d finally turned out the lights on John Edwards, GQ came up with a spread (pun intended-sorry!) of Rielle wearing a simple outfit of pearls (but no panties) and man shirt, playing amid stuffed animals. And now we have Oprah chatting her up for her show and, incidentally, finding her “genuine…really forthcoming.”
I suppose all that makes her a “real celebrity.” Maybe we need to banish the word “celebrity” –quickly, before Oprah rounds up the Tigerettes.
I don’t want to watch an hour of Rielle Hunter. There is an epidemic of stupidity in our country. We could put that hour to better use.
However, if you’re an Oprah fan, I don’t want to leave you empty. Oprah said that we were the luckiest people in the world to live in this town because it was so gorgeous. She made special mention of the wisteria growing on the telephone lines. If you want to use that interview hour for something more uplifting, I can at least provide you with a picture of some local, rampant, can’t-get-rid-of-the-stuff wisteria.
This is growing on a very tall tree. I hope that is sufficient, since I have no photos of wisteria growing on telephone lines.
No way am I climbing a pole.