No doubt my priorities are all screwed up.  There’s so much going on in the world that cries out for serious attention and consideration, and here I sit, obsessing about Viagra commercials.

Gun violence, Brexit, terrorist explosions, to say nothing of the upcoming political conventions during which two flawed candidates will be nominated to run for the highest office in the universe.  It’s absolutely terrifying.  In fact, I should be focusing on which country I would migrate to, if the flawed candidate with the orange face and comb-over should happen to win.  But I’m not naming names here.

So maybe I’m obsessing about Viagra commercials because they’re harmless, the only consequence being the possibility of a four-hour erection, and not becoming the laughing stock of the entire world.

Oh, where is Bob Dole when you need him most? No, not to make a political comeback, but an ED comeback, and replace those horrid women who, with intimacy as genuine as a flea market version of a Gucci purse, discuss your husband’s boner, or lack thereof.

Because when it came to erectile dysfunction, Bob Dole was the real deal.    A survivor of prostate cancer, with genuine concerns about his performance, both politically and in the bedroom, he didn’t need to seductively gaze at his image in a mirror while running a brush through his brunette locks.   His was an authentic first person experience.  He was forthright, dignified, honest.  It was a tale of ED that America could truly believe in.

What is it about the current Viagra commercials that make me want to vomit?  Perhaps it’s because I find all that oozing sensuality absolutely nauseating.

So here’s the thing:  If those commercials are talking to me, so that I can convince “my man” to deal with his limp noodle, I would like to inform the ad agency here and now that I find it impossible to take serious advice, British accent notwithstanding, from women who look like they’ve been recruited from an escort service, or an internet porn site.

If not an escort service, then perhaps 1- 900-lez-do it.  Hey, big boy, just pop this little blue pill, and a good time is just a phone call away.

To say that these Viagra vignettes lack subtlety is like saying the Grand Canyon is just a hole in the ground.

The tone of voice that is dripping with intimacy, the pouty mouth, the raised eyebrow, the sultry purr that says you can trust me.

The sly glance in the mirror, hair released from those confining clips, perfume applied to the wrist, then sniffed seductively.

Or, our temptress is lying on a bed or divan in a sensual pose, letting her locks cascade over her bare shoulders.  And when she decides it’s time to rise, she doesn’t walk like a regular person, but slithers and slinks across the floor, glancing backward over her still bare milky white shoulder, with eyes that hold the promise of a hot night in the tree house.  And the flower in her hair — an exotic touch.  My compliments.

To the woman in the jersey, on the bed, fondling the football, I get it.  But I just want to say that personally, I don’t find watching football games all that exciting.  In fact, I hate football.  And cuddling in bed after? Well, fine, but who’s going to scrape the left-over cheese dip from the nacho bowl?

And, by the way, when I want to curl up in bed with a good book, that’s exactly what I want to do — curl up with a good book!

Also, I’m very suspect of the blonde in the blue dress floating around the room discussing the advantages of the Viagra single pack.  Tell me she and that guy are not having an affair.

The thought has occurred to me that my criticism might be tinged with envy.  Perhaps I would like the opportunity to be the voice of Viagra.  It might take a couple of years, because I would have to let my hair grow.  But that would give me time to figure out how to stretch out on my divan in a pose that best hides the belly fat.

But here’s the thing:  I don’t think so.    Being a middle-age know-it-all sex goddess is just not that appealing.  Okay, so I’m no longer middle-age.  Why quibble?

Now that I’ve aired this gripe, perhaps I can refocus my attention on global warming, and making sure my passport hasn’t expired.    And discovering the whereabouts of Bob Dole.

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