[Note: This column is about a sensitive, burning, painful, itchy topic, namely, genital herpes. If you are offended by the words 'genital' and 'herpes,' or any combination of the two, I highly suggest you move on to Mr. Wilson's column. Also, if you have genital herpes, please don't construe this as me mocking you; on the contrary, I'm all about people with genital herpes, and would never, ever mock them, even if threatened with tazers, cattle prods, or other farming paraphernalia. Really.]
So, I was sitting in my room the other day, minding my own business, writing my doctoral thesis on the quality of life of aboriginal lab rats in captivity in France (read: lip-synching in the mirror to the song "Can't Get Enough of Your Love, Babe") when this commercial for Valtrex came on the TV.
If you've ever owned or operated a TV, you've seen this commercial; it stars this pretty little blond woman in this pretty little yellow sweater set, looking around her furtively to make certain her conversation isn't being monitored by the KGB or Peter Jennings. She looks into the camera, hands shoved in her pockets, and begins to explain how she takes Zovirax for her genital herpes outbreaks.
Now, I don't have genital herpes.
And if I did, I don't think I'd be telling anyone with a camera about it. I mean, what was the point of her even assuring the privacy of her conversation by looking around if she was just going to blab it all to the cameraman? Did she think he was just making a tasteful little film that no one would ever see?
And it just gets worse.
After the blond woman fades into the background, another nice looking woman comes on, and starts talking about how she can't be taking so many genital herpes pills a day, because, and I quote, "I have a life."
Obviously, she has quite an active life if she's contracted genital herpes, wouldn't you agree?
I generally don't have a problem with commercials. I'm a big fan, in fact. Remember those commercials about the Beer God? Those things changed my life. Really.
But this commercial just makes me want to rip my hair out and cram it down the throat of the pretty little sweater-setted blond. It makes me want to whip out a gun, Elvis-style, and shoot out the TV tube. It makes me want to get up off my butt and change the channel. And that takes a lot. Usually, that's a privilege reserved only for televised bowling and shows featuring Shelley Long.
Maybe I'm just reading too much into it. I suppose commercials aren't supposed to be an entirely cerebral experience, like, say, Jerry Springer.
All I know is, the only thing that Valtrex commercial does for me is make me glad I don't have genital herpes, and reinforce the fact that, if I did, I sure wouldn't be telling any cameraman about it. Even if I did get a free sweater set out of the deal.