Pharmaceutical pill pushers…..

June 6, 2014

think people are dumber than dirt….

Americans have become so germophobic and obsessed with taking pills to do everything but decide what pill to take that the immune system must be nearing extinction. I’m glad my grandson is allowed to jump in mud and play with bugs.

I plan on dying from old age or paybacks rather than from paranoia, from allergies to air, or from choking on pills. So far, so good.

I remember early television, back when it was “live” and an unfortunate, unscripted, epithet in response to a falling backdrop would be heard by one and all, and some lady in an apron would brag on a box of laundry soap, or some man in a fedora would demonstrate the enjoyment of a Chesterfield. “See the USA in Your Chevrolet” has been replaced by some macho cowboy getting his horse trailer stuck in the mud and thinking about Viagra, though I haven’t the slightest idea what one has to do with the other and I don’t think I want to know. Once the cartoons are done, the commercial fare switches from cookies and toys to all of the different potions, pills, and poppycock one is supposed to educate his or her doctor about to see if it might be right for me, even though it may cause my ears to grow testicles, ruin major vital organs, or, in rare cases, kill me. The Pharmaceutical companies and advertising industry play around with human psychology like I used to play around with incompatible chemicals and minor explosive devices, and virtually everybody over 50 is presumed to be dumber than bread, or at best too stupid to remember that a couple of Aspirin, a daub of Vicks in a pot of hot water on the stove, or a spoonful of that terrible tasting concoction Mom brewed up would accomplish most of the stuff one is supposed to act exceptionally knowledgeable about with somebody who spent 15 years in college learning everything there is to know about how the human body works. I spent 4 years in college learning how to drink beer, and I’m supposed to condescendingly lecture him about organic chemistry and neurobiology? And pay him $160 for 15 minutes of his time for the privilege of doing so? Color me suspicious, but exactly who is this shtick supposed to benefit, Me? The doctor? Excuse my Anglo Saxon derivative, but:

I don’t effing think so!

Either something terrible has happened to the human genome during the past ten or fifteen years, or the Snake Oil Salesmen of nineteenth century notoriety were spontaneously resurrected recently and are mesmerizing people in droves, because millions of men have (allegedly) tried, and now supposedly depend on, one of two Miracle Potions to get their groove on. In the commercial spots of Let’s Pretend Land, the droopy Don Juans are typically represented by hairy meatlockers looking more like NFL draft candidates than second stringers from the Fred Flaccid Tiddlywinks team.

One has to wonder how the hell mankind made it out of the primordial ooze, sometimes keeping vast harems properly entertained, and sometimes cranking out families larger than the towns they lived in, without Pfizer and Lilly to hold their hands, so to speak. Even with no personal experience with the now indispensible poontang pills, I can confidently state that the stuff doesn’t work anyway. I mean, just look at the commercials!

  • 1-The moment is right…..(what, they have a pamphlet about that now? “Arousal for Dummies“?).

  • 2-The guy with the chin like an I-beam pops That Pill.

  • 3-The guy with the chin like an I-beam does the old wink-wink at his life-mate, his date, or the Ten on the next barstool.

  • 4-Wait for it……

  • 5-They take a bath, paint the living room, set up a tent on the beach…….yadda yadda yadda

Wuz it good fer yoo?”

Look, I wasn’t born yesterday, or under a cabbage leaf, nor was I conceived in a bathtub, to the best of my knowledge.

When my remaining hair, including the crap hanging out of my ears, requires the use of a brush, I go to a barber and pay him to cut it. I don’t tell him how to do his job or try to sell him the latest stinkum. When my denture broke while enthusiastically working on a peppermint, I went to someone who specializes in such things. However, when they handed me a “form” the size of “War and Peace” to fill with the details about every cell in my body and wanted to do everything but a pre-emptive autopsy and fix my denture, I bought a $3 tube of Super Glue and did the job myself.

Otherwise, when my body engages in annoying or unfamiliar behaviors, and I can’t fix it myself, I seek professional medical intervention. I don’t tell my cardiologist how to cross his T’s and dot his I’s, I didn’t guide my surgeon’s hand while he rearranged the furniture, and I have no interest in trying to do my own colonoscopy.

Listen up, pharmaceutical industry, and your enabling bedfellows in Washington, about the only things I am qualified to tell my doctor are “yes”, “no“, and “ouch.” If you want him to know about your product, pay a “Detail Man” to shower him with fishing trips, booze, nifty ball point pens, and tons of free samples like back in the good old days when he could say “get the hell out of my office,” instead of “Request permission to think, Sir…

So, to all of the smiling phony doctors, pharmacists, half naked super models, emasculated testosterone factories, et al, I say “get the hell off my TV“…….


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