I'm Bracing Myself For Four Days Of Ads Aimed At My Groin

It seems like every other TV ad during a golf tournament these days is aimed at men with, ummm, performance problems. And lately, for those that just don't measure up, if you know what I am saying. There were at least eight ads per hour by my best guestimation, and I think that the actual number may be a lot higher. And judging by the number of spots they are buying these days, the drug companies must have a lot of customers.

Now then, I am by no means a prudish fellow, but when is too much enough? Do golf fans really need to be bombarded week after week after week with blurbs exclaiming how they can have a "better sexual experience" and how they can "increase their size" if they plunk down a few $20 bills for a bottle of magic potion?

And will I get a pair of bathtubs to go along with my first prescription? One product seems to think that a successful sexual experience involves two old-fashioned bathtubs sitting outdoors just waiting for an amorous couple to climb in (flying solo, one to a tub, thanks) to watch the sun set while they wistfully touch each others' arms with their fingertips. Sounds like fun -- "your tub or mine, honey?"

If I can't have the bathtubs, then I can always go get a bottle of pills, and then pick up a Harley-Davidson, so I can pick up my wife on her way into the house on a Friday and then drive her at 20 miles per hour through the hot desert on her way to a hotel in the middle of nowhere. I've been married a while, and I am certain that the Missus would just love to go out into the boon-docks with no extra clothes, none of her female stuff (makeup and whatever else comprises the 13,304 things she carries when she travels) or any of that. No sir, the Harley would tell her emphatically -- I've been to the drugstore, so let's go NOW! Naturally, she'd climb on the back with a smile, ready for some...ummm...adventure.

I guess that experience would also make her completely overlook that particular female penchant for personal hygiene, because after that sweaty seductive experience, the first thing she's going to want to do is go to the bathroom head to bed for some awesome pill-powered personal time. And no need for check-in sir, your love shack will be waiting! The only thing I would have to do (besides finding a glass of water to toss down the magic pill) would be to put out the "Do Not Disturb" sign. Life is really like that, right?

Powerful stuff these pills are.

Thing is, deeply ensconced as I am in middle age, I suppose I am squarely in their target demographic. At the same time, they seem to be missing out on the fact that I am a guy and that means that 1) I hate going to the doctor and 2) if I do go to the doctor the last thing I want to talk about are my "performance" problems, that is, if I had any.As it is , he rushes in like he is late for a date with Maigan Fox, asks me what's wrong, and then dispenses some wisdom on his way out the door to his next appointment. There's hardly time to get out multisyllabic words like "performance problems" and even if I did say that, he'd probably ask me if I had called my golf teacher about them to get some help. Or maybe to slow down my backswing.

These companies are pretty smart, however, because they seem to have corrected the phrase they used to use, the one where the ad would seriously intone "after four hours, seek professional help." That didn't exactly make me think of calling my doctor away from his candlelit dessert and coffee with Maigan, instead it made me think that I would need to find a lady of the evening to set things right. Professional help, right? Obviously someone doesn't know what they are doing here.

That would be pretty hard to explain to my wife, as I hurriedly dressed and headed to the car.

"Where are you going?!" she would say.

"Downtown. To seek professional help. Like the prescription said." I would supposedly have to explain to her.

I'm sure that she would be understanding, and waiting for me in one of the bathtubs - the outdoors ones, mind you -- when I got home.

Riiiight. I guess they were alerted to this unfortunately turn of phrase by an angry wife or seven dozen, but now the warning is "seek medical help." In other words, leave the lap of luxury and head down to the emergency room for a six inch needle....WHERE??!!?!? Dear God, no. Not a chance.

All things considered, none of this seems like the most satisfying or pleasurable experience I could possibly have when it comes to alone time. And to be honest, neither will be the endless onslaught of ads that will start as soon as I turn on the PGA Championship tomorrow and will continue relentlessly until the trophy is lifted on Sunday night. Surely, please, surely golf can find other advertisers?