I’ve spent a lot of time, recently, on the couch, head and ears aching; and when I’m not practicing bogus levitation spells courtesy of my vast knowledge of the first two Harry Potter books or standing, pointlessly, in front of the fridge, I’m attracted to the dark viscous sludge that oozes out of my television.
I’ve had the flu since Wednesday. It’s the only excuse I have.
Let’s talk about the prescriptions the TV thinks you might want to talk to your doctor about. Can we talk about coding your insulin meter? No? Your sudden and frequent urge to pee? Can we talk about that? No? How about we discuss Erectile Dysfunction?
Hey. I’m no expert on men, but I’d be happy to take a look.
Good grief, people, I’m being held captive in a duplex in Minneapolis.
Don’t get me wrong. I prefer these commercials to the fresh-faced adolescents asking their mothers if they’ve ever had that “not so fresh” feeling.
Still, what’s the deal with prescription drug commercials?
I know there’s a dollar to be made, but I’ve reached my limit on watching commercials featuring leering “middle-aged” men who may or may not be on boner enhancers.
I’ve yelled openly at the TV twice this afternoon. Sure I turn it off, but then I’m back. Book Three in the Harry Potter series is here in my hot little hands, but the TV! The TV! It’s just so much easier for me to lay here and complain about the never-ending Lipitor commercials.
I wonder if the TV can recommend a drug for my irritations?
Terms of Endearment
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