Follow Janet On Twitter!





Archive for February, 2009

Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection At Dinner

Thursday, February 26th, 2009

Okay, so I know I’m not supposed to watch TV while eating dinner. I’m supposed to have a sparkling exchange of dialogue with my husband. But we both work at home and are around each other 24/7 and by nightfall, we’re all out of conversation, sparkling or otherwise. We normally watch the local news, followed by Jeopardy. I think the only other people with this routine are over 100. I came to this conclusion by the type of commercials I see nightly. You’d think they’d be running tantalizing ads for pizzas and food, since this is the dinner hour. Nope. It’s all about men’s equipment failure. If I hear the words “urine stream” or “decrease in semen” one more time, I’m throwing out my TV. But what really repulses me? The ubiquitous Viagra™, Cialis™ and Levitra™ ads.

Let me tell you something, dinner is not the time I want to think about Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection. In fact, there isn’t a time I want to think about Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection. Sorry, but this thought disgusts me. I think even when I’m eighty, I won’t want to be thinking about some bald, bespeckled, saggy-bodied oldster with a raging hard on. I’ll be picturing George Clooney at forty with six-pack abs and a stiffy—not freakin’ Sean Connery with unstoppable wood. Yet, inevitably, as I’m chopping zucchini or some other appropriately shaped vegetable, I hear these same words at least six or seven times: If you have an erection lasting four or more hours, please consult your physician…

I wonder about that warning. At what point does Mr. Wood call the doctor? At four hours exactly? Or is it at four hours and one minute? Five hours? So erections lasting three hours and forty-five minutes are okay? I picture Grandpa lying there, his missile propping up the bedsheets like a Boy Scout tent, staring at the clock. “Edna, has it been four hours yet?” “Oh, stop bragging, old man.” And with our current medical system, is there a doctor waiting to answer Mr. Wood’s call? I assume most seniors would prefer to have sex after dark. Which means they are dealing with this hyper-tumescence problem at around, say midnight or one o’clock in the morning. I don’t know any doctors save emergency room doctors that are up that late. Nor am I aware of any Erection Hotlines. So, this ninety-year-old guy is supposed to drive himself to the emergency room at one in the morning and sit there in the waiting room with his lightning rod sprouting proudly upwards—next to drunks, accident victims and sick babies—hoping someone will be able to tame his anaconda. “Daddy, why’s that old man holding an umbrella in his lap?”

I can’t imagine any male doing this. I can’t imagine any male being upset with having a lasting erection. Especially not an eighty-year-old. I would imagine they’d be delighted the thing still worked. And what better example of virility for an old guy than a permanent erection? Sure, makes it a bit hard to button the trousers, fit into the shower, lie on their stomach. But think of the uses! No longer would the guy have to worry about where to hang his coat. Where to keep his keys. For people with memory problems, this would be a great side benefit. Honey? Where’s the leash for the dog? Why, right here in my pants! The keys to the shed? In my pants! Just think how handy it would be when he helped his wife with the shopping. Turn around honey, I need to hang up my purse. Guys could carry extra groceries—look, ma, no hands! In a retirement community, think of the possibilities for new activities. Men could bring all new meaning to cock fighting. Forget the swords, we have our four-hour-erections!

Of course, we never see real-life examples of Viagra use in those commercials. The ads feature buff guys who look forty with a bit of gray at their temples and this happy, smiling woman (also fortyish) by their side. They’re on some lanai overlooking the ocean, watching a sunset, sipping wine and snuggling in their clean, trendy, pressed and starched clothes. Right.

If Viagra commercials were depictions of reality they would show the overweight and bald eighty-five-year-old Chet wearing his seersucker 70’s pants (Hey, they’re still good!) up over his waist, his comb-over stuck up off his head like a shark fin from his earlier nap, chasing Edna in her gray bubble do, support hose and lime green pantsuit around the retirement home. “Hey baby, I got a somethin’ for ya! Somethin’ you haven’t seen in a while! Heh-heh-heh!” They’d show Edna, finally sick of the old coot pestering her with his four-hour-wood, packing her bags and moving in with her sister in Poughkeepsie. They’d show Chet, alone in his apartment with a rolling pin in his pants, contemplating faking a heart attack so he could get an ambulance ride to the hospital without anyone discovering the truth.

I say, let’s interject some reality into the advertisements. I want to see the Viagra Casualties. I want to see Edna’s horrified expression when she realizes that her lovely twenty-year-sex hiatus is over. I want to see the old guys clamoring for help in emergency rooms, frustrated because they can’t reach the nurse’s desk due to the poles in their pants. I want to see the doctors trying to appear concerned about their patient’s ceaseless wood while snickering behind their hands. I want to see what they do to guys who actually make it to the emergency room. Do they hose them down? Show them naked pictures of Newt Gingrich? Show them the latest stock report?

But mainly, I want the bloody advertisers to stop mentioning Grandpa’s Four Hour Erection during dinner. I don’t ever want to hear the words “urine stream” again while I’m cooking. Yes, a hard man is good to find. But I still don’t want to think about Bob Dole with a log in his pants while I’m trying to eat.

Of course, the ensuing nausea might help with my new diet.

©2009, Janet Periat

I Am A Claw Machine Addict

Sunday, February 22nd, 2009

I am physically unable to pass by an arcade claw machine without sticking some money inside and trying to rescue the animals within. Success depends on many factors: the lay of the animal, obstructions, but most importantly, the strength of the claw. I have yanked many buried animals out of machines by the sheer clamping power of the claw. But that is rare. Mainly, the search is for animals that are laying on top of others, unobstructed. I have spent hours and hours and many dollars rescuing animals from machines.

Which means I have been the temporary owner of some of the most hideous, mangled, freakish and downright disturbing stuffed animals created. Claw machines are Purgatory for ugly stuffed animals. A sad, lonely, horrible existence.

Which is why it has become my mission to rescue them and send them off to Toys for Tots. Which inevitably makes me feel guilty. Dad doesn’t have a job, we’re losing our house and all I have to show for it is a deformed giraffe. Oh, well, such is life.

Soon, I will be featuring pictures of the creme de la creme of the hideous creatures I have “won” along with stories about them.

Be afraid. Be very, very afraid.

My Trophies For 2008

Sunday, February 22nd, 2009
Animals I Have Rescued From Claw Machines

Animals I Have Rescued From Claw Machines

Site maintained by Laideebug Digital
Laideebug Digital