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For the Love of God, Bob, Get That Thing Away from Me!

All right. I know I just ranted about TV commercials yesterday. And, um, come to think of it, again, just a few days ago. At the risk of turning this site into a full-time ‘boob tube bitchery’, I just can’t hold back here. Just one more, and I’ll shut up about it for a while, I promise.

But holy crap, would somebody tell me whose willy I’ve got to snap in half to get those damned Enzyte commercials off my television? Just let me know — I’ll hop in there with a crowbar or something, and — *sniggity-snap* — get this shit over with.

Because if I have to see that shit-happy grinning ‘Bob’ bastard and hear that sing-song whistly music, with the ridiculous voice-over just one more time — ‘Bob’s living large and steppin’ easy!‘ — I’m simply gonna have to hurl something through the TV screen. Or hurl on it. Maybe both. Probably depends on what I had for dinner.

Anyway, it’s bad enough that those commercials are really just advertising the merits of a pulsing, uncontrollable, six-hour hard-on. Believe it or not, I can actually get past that. Hell, Viagra’s been doing that shit for months now, and their commercials are vaguely amusing. Sometimes. Vaguely. A little. Eh.

But these Enzyte ads are just goddamned scary. That ‘Bob’ twink doesn’t look like he’s got a drug-induced chubby — the dude is frickin’ manic. He looks more like there’s a lamppost bent off all up in his urethra hole. Um, erotically, somehow, that is. I mean, he does look happy, after all.

But he’s too happy, and that’s what’s so freaking creepy about the whole thing. Look, I’m a guy. Now, I’ve never taken Enzyte myself, but I’ve certainly… um, well, let’s just say that I’ve spent some quality time in Woodytown now and then. And I’m not talkin’ about Woody Allen, either. I’m just saying that I’ve been in Bob’s neighborhood, albeit the natural way.

(Well, if you call flipping through issues of ‘Happy Hooters’ and ‘Jiggles ‘n’ Nips’ ‘natural‘, that is. I… um, yeah. I just read ’em for the articles. Ahem.)

Anyway, the point is, nobody has ever been that happy to be sporting a stiffy. Ever. Not even when it’s stuck in something. Or somebody, for that matter. Personally, I think Bob’s been confusing his bottle of Enzyte with his vials of quaaludes and crank he’s keeping in the medicine cabinet. And judging by the look of sweaty hysteria on his wife’s face, she’s dipping into the same well.

Or maybe Bob’s just slipping her the big throbby business six or eight times a day, and that’s why she looks so frazzled. Who knows? Who can understand these damned commercials, anyway? I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that Enzyte’s really just a multivitamin, or an antacid. Or, more likely from watching the commercials, a highly dangerous and illegal mood elevator normally used to pull hippos out of their tranquilizer addictions.

Whatever. All right, I’m really done this time. I promise I won’t harp on some stupid-ass commercial for at least… oh, let’s say… at least a week. How’s that? Let’s just pray the douchebags at Old Navy don’t have one of their brilliant ideas for an ad before then. I simply don’t know how I’ll be able to contain myself.