I Watched It, Now You Read It.

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I’ve again spent a Sunday watching Meet the Press and This Week – but I’m okay, thanks for asking. I did not watch Face the Nation since I live in constant fear of Bob Schieffer telling his story about how he dated Lee Harvey Oswald’s mom.

In an ongoing an attempt to drive me mad, Tim “Big Potatoes” Russert is interviewing another candidate for the 2008 Presidential election. In this instance, it is the ever more puzzling Fred Thompson. Now Fred has roughly the same chance of becoming President as former slugger Mookie Wilson, but I guess it’s easier for Russert and crew to interview an also-ran than discuss any actual news.

I don’t know if Mookie Wilson really was a slugger, but next to Ickey Woods, he has the best name in sports history.

Fred waited about 12 years between hinting that he would run, and actually announcing it. Now we can see why; the man is exhausted. While being grilled by Tim (speaking of which, I bet Russert and Thompson could do well at an all-you-can-eat rib dinner), Fred honestly seemed as if he could not care less. Maybe he’s on medication, maybe he was up all night giving Sam Waterston tips on scowling but he was pretty sedate through this appearance. I’m not entirely sure, but maybe I like this.

A disinterested man is probably a man too hard to corrupt or co-opt. Fred has an aide with a conviction for a drug crime. Fred doesn’t care – in the most sincere statement in this campaign, he just really doesn’t care; “he’s my pal, he’ll remain my pal…did your producer said that I would get a mug? “

As President, he’ll get done precisely what he needs to and not one more damn thing. Now I’m sure – that does appeal to me. A guy worried about getting the day done by 2pm will not start a war. Those late night sessions in the Situation Room are just too much work for President Fred.

The second half of the show was then devoted to Tom Brokaw, and Potatoes spent a great deal of time fawning over Tom’s book about Baby Boomers. Brokaw had already written a volume on the Greatest Generation and now he’s on to this. In a few months he’ll issue a volume on guys who are frightened of geese.

This Week had former senator John Edwards, who seems like a genuinely nice man – but most charming, vote-wanting rich guys do. I’ll make a bold prediction now and bet that come January of 2009, President Edwards will be settling in at whatever huge corporation places him at the head of their board. I was very interested to hear what Edwards had to say since he’s stalled in the polls, but that changed and within about thirteen seconds as his Carolina drawl rendered me insensible, having shut down my entire nervous system. Soon, I sat pith-eyed and wondered how much John Edwards and George Stephanopoulos, combined, spend on hair conditioner.

Really, it was all I can do to remember anything other than the commercial that split Edwards’ interview; Flomax.

Flomax – unless you’re a woman who is pregnant or may become pregnant – helps you pee. Other than that, I can’t distinguish between these ads and the ads for power-washing attachments for the garden hose.

There’s an odd and vaguely troubling equivalence in these ads being manliness and how well you shake the dew off of the lily. There are genuine medical conditions that I’m sure need to be taken care of, but when did “stream strength” get added to the list?

Short of saying “Hey, Mr. Pissy Pants!” this commercial really avoids any attempt at either subtlety or dignity. Replete with pictures of happy and vigorous men doing manly things and ALWAYS holding ninety-seven ounce beverages, the message of this add is clear:

Unless you are a four-year old sissy girl, you should be able to drink a Dr. Pepper of the same volume as a Panamax oil tanker and watch 11 NFL games back to back.

When you finally release the precious contents of your vault-like bladder, if your urine is not flying out in such a mad torrent that you are aggressively chipping away at porcelain with industrial force, then you sir, are simply not up to snuff. You and your fragile, meek trickle of non-masculine urine are a dead give away that you don’t make enough money, that your wife is not satisfied with your mojo and, by the way, your accountant told me over coffee that he just thought you were ‘maybe kind of gay’. You know that thing in Ghostbusters where you couldn’t cross the streams? Well, it turns out that you can.

Flomax knows. Your friends are laughing at you.

That was my Sunday morning – pity me.

 

 

 

 

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