Sexism Is Alive And Well On Madison Avenue

There are very few absolutes in life. You will absolutely pay income
taxes. You will absolutely breathe. You will absolutely stop breathing
for a few moments when your income tax returns trigger an IRS audit (I
know this one from personal experience). You will absolutely die when
you stop breathing long enough to starve your brain of the oxygen it
requires in order to keep your bodily functions happening.

Another absolute: You will absolutely be forced to endure watching
embarrassing commercials on television. You know the ones I mean. They
go something like this:

(fade in to scene of unrealistically beautiful mother and lookalike
teenaged daughter strolling blissfully along a beach as the sun rises
over the horizon in beautiful technicolor)

Daughter: "Mom... do you ever get that.. well.. that Not So Fresh
Feeling?"

Mother: "You mean when your crotch smells like the Canal Street
Fishmarket? Yes, dear, all sexually active women have those days, if we
don't actually use soap and water on a regular basis between
boinkings."

Daughter: "What can I do to avoid groin-stench, Mom?"

Mother: "On those weeks when I just feel like being a skanky
non-bathing ho-bag, honey, I use this!"

(Mother yanks a gigantic spray can out of her purse. The can is hot
pink with cartoon roses emblazoned on its surface, and it bears a
photograph of a wide open, drippingly diseased vulva on its
front)

Mother: "Ho-Bag Stink-Be-Gone Spray! Guaranteed to stop that foul
ordure that attracts stray cats and rut-hungry boars to your crotch!
Try it today!"

Daughter: "I'm so glad that you're a filthy sleaze too, Mom, so that
you can help me learn these things."

Mother: "That's my little girl!"

(Mother and Daughter embrace in glee as the sun bursts into fullness,
shedding golden light all over the beach. Jingle plays in the
background.)

Jingle: Ho-Bag Stink-Be-Gone Spray
If you are skanky, sleazy and gross
You may carry a filthy disease
But from your smell no one will guess you're a host!

(end commercial)

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I find these commercials
obnoxious in the extreme. I really don't want to know about the aroma
of another woman's yahoo, and for some reason, I doubt very much that
most other people are interested in it either. I also don't want to
know about which tampon they prefer, or which sanitary napkin sucks up
the most fluid. (Those pad ads always remind me of Pampers ads.
Disposable diapers for women!) I have no interest in hearing about
another woman's need for a bra that lifts and separates due to the fact
that they spent their formative years braless and their nipples keep
brushing against their ankles when they walk. I am not impressed by ads
of older women talking about their "embarrassing leakage" issues, or
the fact that from these ads, one would get the strong impression that
only women ever suffer bladder incontinence.

If we as a society really think that sexism is gone, we are wearing
blinders. All we need to do is turn on the TV and see for ourselves.
Stench-Be-Gone, Plug-Me-Up, Peepee-Absorball, Bind-Me-Up Brassieres,
they are all there. Meanwhile, the ads aimed at men are for beer,
athlete's foot spray and shaving cream.

I am demanding that Madison Avenue begin equality in advertising. What
does this mean?

It means that I insist that for every ad that shows women discussing
their personal body parts and how they handle it, we should see a
similar one for men. This means jock itch creams and sprays, erection
inducing creams, absorbant penis socks to wear if you are subject to
nocturnal emissions, jock strap and testicular hernia truss ads and
similar products. And while I'm on this subject, MEN HAVE INCONTINENCE
PROBLEMS TOO, so let's hear more about that, dammit! Viagra ads
featuring Bob Dole simply are Not Good Enough. I have a fantasy that
one day Koji will be watching the Stupid Bowl and we will see an ad
during half time that runs something like this:

(Father and Son are sitting at the end of a pier, fishing for shark, as
the sun rises slowly over the horizon.)

Son: "Gee Dad, I'm sure glad Mom and Sis are off talking about girl
stuff, Dad, because, see, I wanted to ask you.. do you ever have those
"Ewww, I'm Sticky" mornings?

Dad: "Why yes, Son, I do! You see, your mother is a frigid old sow with
me (but from her copious use of female hygiene products I assume she's
boffing the mailman, the UPS guy, and the neighbor's doberman), so I
tend to get very frustrated, and when I don't masturbate often enough,
I have hot dreams where Drew Barrymore is wrapping her luscious pink
lips around my ho-ho-dilly and.. Oh Man. What were you talking about,
son?"

Son: "Her BREASTS, Dad, tell me about Drew's BREASTS!"

Dad: "No, thats NC-17, and you are only ready for PG-13. Right, you
were asking about Sticky Mornings. Okay, if you keep blowing a wad in
your dreams, then you need to use the same thing I do."

(Dad reaches into his fishing creel and pulls out a garishly labeled
box that bears a photograph of Drew Barrymore lasciviously fondling a
thick cotton socklike object on its cover.)

Dad: "Wet-Dream-Sucker! This clever little object slides right over
your schlong in the evening when you put on your jammies, and stays
there to absorb any sticky gooey foofoo that you should release during
hot dreams about Drew Barrymore, Christina Ricci, or even Ethan Hawke!
Wet-Dream-Sucker, for those "Damn that bi+ch, will I ever get laid
again?" nights!"

Son: "Wet-Dream-Sucker! For those "Damn! Will I ever get laid at ALL?"
nights!"

(Camera pulls back as the Son's fishing pole begins to jerk
wildly.)

Dad: "Whoa son, don't yank on it so hard, you could get a
blister!"

Son: "I think it's gonna be bigger than yours, Dad!"

(Father and Son laugh and laugh as they pull on the son's pole
together. Jingle plays.)

Jingle: "Use Wet-Dream-Sucker every night
Especially if you're a loner
Your sheets won't be gooey, you won't have a fright
When you go to sleep with a boner!"

Voice-Over of Son: "Dad... that's not my fishing rod!"

(Fade out)

Oh, don't I just wish it.

(Fade out)