Does anybody read the crap lost in the Archives, you know, the stuff that’s two to three months old. I thought so. The answer is No. And that’s a good thing. It means I can recycle some of my earlier stuff and nobody will know.
Having a blog is sorta like being in a band. At the beginning of a group, there’s a lot of energy and creativity. A lot of good stuff is cranked out for the first two, maybe three albums, them Zippo. A Greatest Hits album, then obscurity. The juices stop flowing, and it’s a regurgitation of now worn out lyrics. I mean, how long can a group of young men angrily scream about how they’re not getting laid, in a thrash metal band, before one of them actually does get laid, and comes to the conclusion that he much more prefers Barry White to punk music, because he gets more action with Barry than black n blue in some damn mosh-pit listening to the Misfits or Some Other Trash (not an actual band).
So I’m gonna re-lay some Solid Gold on ya, about Reptile Dysfunction. Now this is a delicate subject for a limp lizard is embarrassing. But not embarrassing enough to advertise the shit out of remedies for this affliction.
A few years ago there started to appear on television, really ambiguous commercials featuring older couples longingly looking at each other with sappy looks on their faces, who ended up in separate bathtubs out in the country or at the end of a pier. Now I wasn’t paying much attention back then, and thought I heard them talking about Reptile Dysfunction. That didn’t make much sense to me cause I didn’t see any lizards or anything. But then I found out that they weren’t talking about reptile dysfunction but Erectile Dysfunction, or E D. Now that made more sense, cause I wasn’t seein’ any snakes, and apparently, neither was she.
It now appears, at least from the number of ED spots on the evening news, that there is an epidemic of us old dinosaurs with limp lizards that just can’t raise our ding dongs: old guys begin’ for a boner, wishing for a woodie, suffering from lack of stiffies, or just plain hankerin’ for a hard on. I wonder what is the cause of this ailment? How could something that worked so wonderfully as a teenager, peter out on ya late in life? Maybe it’s those sixty plus hours a week ya work, the pressure to put kids through college, maxing out your 401K. Or maybe it just gets down to this: after 30 years, how many more times can ya keep hitting that thing???
Now most of these commercials are really stupid in their attempt to be more metaphorical than real. I like the Ciallis for daily use commercials. Show me a 50 year old guy that needs that for “daily” use, and I’ll show you a guy who ain’t married or in a long—term relationship. So what do these couples do when that romantic moment hits, like when cleaning out the garage or doing the laundry? Get naked and do it?? Flop her over a sawhorse and do it doggie style? Hell No!! That would be just awful. No, it’s a leisurely romantic stroll before anything meaningful starts.
Or the two folks in them separate bathtubs? How the hell you gonna do the big nasty in separate tubs? They need to get their butts in a hot tub; glass of wine; a little Barry white playing in the background. Togetherness, NOT separate tubs.