Still Foolin' 'Em (2 page)

But at least the Cialis ads are done well. The original Viagra ads were terrible. They were all athletes, prominent people revealing that they suffer from ED. The idea is if it can happen to them, it can happen to anybody. Even Mike Ditka and Bob Dole did impotence commercials. I applaud them for admitting this personal problem, but honestly, the thought of them with erections is enough to make
me
impotent.

Whatever the affliction, they make the commercials look so beautiful. These people have real problems and in thirty seconds it’s all solved, there are butterflies and bike rides and people walking their puppies, whatever they have is cured, their prostates are shrinking, their bones aren’t brittle, their hairlines are back, and I’m filled with hope. Then right at the end of the commercial that voice comes on and quickly says …

“May cause lack of appetite, dizziness, nervousness, psychotic episodes, blurred vision, stuttering, skipping and jumping, Tourette’s syndrome, barking at the moon, bile backup, speaking in tongues, anal leakage, diarrhea, and impotence.” And I’m thinking,
Okay, who cares? I have to get some sleep!

I get sick of all the commercials, so I change the channel. Now I’m watching high-speed car chases at three
A.M.
That’ll put you right out. Might as well have a double espresso. In Los Angeles, car chases do bigger ratings than
CSI.
They’re the original reality TV. I’m watching a car going the wrong way on the freeway, then it’s going ninety through a school zone, it hits a fence, the suspect is out of the car now, running, the TV camera is in the chopper overhead as the perp, now in a dramatic spotlight, runs through backyards and jumps fences. Personally, I think it’s the best work Lindsay Lohan has ever done.

So I go back to bed. I toss and turn and turn and toss and just can’t get comfortable. Then finally I find the right position, the pillow is nice and cool, and I fall asleep. Five minutes later, the alarm goes off: time to start the day.

Now I get up and I’m cranky. I’m Jeffrey Dahmer and there’s nothing in the fridge. I’m overtired.
Overtired.
The excuse every mother gives for a nasty kid. “Why did he light the garage on fire?” “He’s … overtired.” “Why did he do that, Mrs. Hitler?” “He vas overtired, just a little cranky, he didn’t sleep vell in the 1920s.”

I’m up all night because I worry; I worry about everything. Like the fact that I’m not fucking asleep.

I worry about the axis of evil: Syria, North Korea, and Wall Street CEOs.

I worry that if I’m ever arrested and go to prison, I’ll like anal rape.

I worry that one day my kids will look down at me and say to each other, “I changed him last time, it’s your turn.”

I worry that Scientologists may be right.

I worry that I’m writing this chapter via texting while driv—

I worry that the paramedics will not speak English and won’t be able to read the words
PLEASE RESUSCITATE
I have tattooed on my chest.

I worry that I am not worried about my grandkids being stuck with the national debt.

I worry that playing Angry Birds for thirty hours a week may not qualify as aerobics.

I worry that I’ll die while too many of the people I hate are still alive.

But the one thing I don’t worry about is dying in my sleep. Because I never sleep! When the angel of death comes to my bedside and puts his hand out for me, I’m going to look him right in the eye and say, “Get the fuck out of here.” Then Janice will tell him, “Don’t listen to Billy—he’s overtired, he’s a little cranky.”

Sex

I’ve always thought that the key to a good sex life is variety. That’s why God gave me two hands.

Humans love sex, we need sex, it’s how we connect, it reminds us we’re alive, it’s the third most basic human need, after food and good movie popcorn, but over time the need changes, as does the act itself.

If you’re twenty-five, you’re probably reading this chapter in between your third and fourth go-arounds of the night. If you’re forty-five, statistically you had sex sometime in the last three nights and will have it again another 5.8 times this month … but if you’re sixty-five … HEY, WAKE UP … if you’re sixty-five, certain conditions need to be just right in order to do the nasty. She can’t be having a hot flash, he can’t have had too much asparagus, dinner had to be light and over by four-thirty, and there can’t be a new episode of
Homeland
on that night. Also, your cell phone has to be on Vibrate, not so you don’t hear it, but it adds a nice sensation if you sit on it just right.

When you’re young, all you ever think about is the next time you’re going to have sex; when you get older, you can’t remember the last time you had sex.

Let’s eavesdrop on a couple I will call Him and Her. They were twenty-five in 1973; now they’re sixty-five.

1973

H
IM
: I love when you do that.

H
ER
: You mean tighten it like this?

H
IM
: Oh my God, how do you do that?

H
ER
: Punji, my yoga instructor … he taught me.