THE FOLLOWING IS A PAID ADVERTISEMENT!

I don’t have a vagina. But if I did, I don’t think I’d feel any better about feminine hygiene commercials. From my understanding, these products are a trial and error process. Definitely not cause for a “Tampax Moment” between mother and daughter during a commercial break of Battlebots. I don’t want to be confronted with the visuals these advertisements conjure, all of them ripe with key phrases such as vaginal irritation, feminine itching, menstrual bloating, odor protection, leakage protection, heavy flow and, the grand daddy of them all, the yeast infection. It’s enough to turn you off dairy products, dinner rolls and medium rare steak. Let’s leave vaginal propaganda in the magazines and on store shelves. Is nothing sacred in advertising? In the primetime television hours the average viewer is exposed to the menstrual cycle in graphic detail, the inner workings of the human digestive system (complete with dancing innards), soft-core porn, the wide, wide world of STD’s, images of the oral cavity more repulsive than Martha Stewart, demonstrations of the quick and easy removal of a man’s lovely pelt of back fur, and a list of medication side-effects that make death by fire ants seem like a preferable way to die. If you happen to be the poor bastard with a permanent wet noodle, you get the luxury of watching an equally pathetic sap cure his problem with an amazing little blue pill. Giddy-up! That cowboy is back in the saddle, but only after he gets that loving glance laced with pity and contempt from his faithful wife. What we don’t see is his wife banging the kid next door Olympic-style because, not only does her husband have to medicate himself to sport wood, but he is also losing his hair and could potentially go blind from taking the drug. In yet another twist of irony, medications designed to prevent hair loss may render you impotent. You’ll notice the same expression crease the woman’s face in these ads as well. Now for the Catch-22 of television advertising. I’m talking about the Murphy’s Law of commercials: Victoria's Secret. To whom are they attempting to sell panties? Slow motion close-ups of ample, satin-covered breasts and tight, round buttocks of beautiful amazon women speaking in hushed European accents. Scantily-clad in a few swatches of lace, supermodels strut around with angel wings and billowing luxurious hair. Hallelujah! Just as your pupils start to dilate to the incandescent glow of soft-core porn you hear, “What the fuck are you looking at?” In a mere 30-seconds you have gone from loving, significant other (if you have one-- if not, enjoy!) to asshole swine. For the next few days you are subjected to the wrath and endless preaching of the evils that men do. Why? Because Les Wexner wants to sell fucking underwear. To whom I still do not know, but he’s a savvy motherfucker. The ads have since employed a Too-Cute-For-Words puppy to nuzzle the supermodel boobies. When that commercial runs your honey can “Ooh” and “Aww” over the puppy and you are safe to do the same over the other “puppies.” But for your own safety do not crack a smile. And as for the Girls Gone Wild commercials, the funk has only this to say: look away! For the love of God, avert your ogling eyes from those shameless whores, for they may be pushed from their sockets in your sleep.