I don’t know about you, but all the commercials I see on television for Viagra, and Cialis, and all those “male enhancement” pills make me wonder just how many women out there aren’t getting enough sex, or aren’t getting it regularly enough to suit them. And I also wonder if maybe our society isn’t awash in drugs and maybe we’re all just overdoing it. Is it possible we’re taking too many of these things? What would an alien who watched all our drug commercials think?
Greetings, Earthling! Please, do not be alarmed, Yes, I have descended from the sky in what your people whimsically call a “flying saucer.” Yes, I am an alien. As it says on the transmissions you beam into space, “I come in peace.”
Yes, we watch your television shows. We have learned how to convert our language, which would be meaningless in your speech, to Earth words you will comprehend, for we have identified certain correspondences based on the words most frequently (my elders would say, incessantly) beamed from your world into the blackness of space.
Using our painstakingly compiled conversion program, therefore, I believe you will be able to understand me. I am Lipitor, from the planet Viagra. I bring a message from Ambassador Paxil. We are a peaceful people, but we are a people at war. You see, my cherished people are being oppressed by the evil Zoloft Alliance, based on the dark and forbidding planet Nexium. Our war requires much in the way of resources. Specifically, to fight the Zoloft, we require Protonix to fuel our starship for an incursion into the Propecia cluster. There, our allies of the Xanax Ring may be able to offer some small amount of support.
You may be asking yourself, why the Viagrans? Why not, perhaps, our allies from the Verizon Nebulae? They would very much like to assist us, Earthlings, but they have their own war to fight, a war against the Cingulars from Element K. They cannot help us.
Please, gentle Earthlings, set aside your fears and render us aid. No amount of Prozac ore from the Serepax Belt will suffice. We must process the Protonix we mine from your planet into Ativan, Rohypnol, and Tranxene, if we are to have a chance to free the occupied world of Normison from the Zoloft tyrant, Mogadon.
I know that I ask much. Not since the mythic hero Ritalin confronted the Pirates of Dexedrine, killing many innocent Focalins in the ensuing fray, have we faced so grave an hour, so urgent a need.
You may be asking yourselves if helping aliens may have repercussions. We will not lie to you. Yes, when you take sides, there may be certain side effects. These, however, are similar to sugar pill, and include dry mouth, headache, certain unusual viral conditions, and slow immolation by alien Death Ray.
If slow immolation by alien Death Ray is not for you, consult your physician. Oh, also drowsiness.
Of course, even more disturbing than all those drug commercials are the letters to the editor that used to run in the newspaper. I know newspapers are pretty much dying out now, and hopefully people get more immediate advice from things like Craigslist or WebMd or whatever, but there was a time when people would just send letters to their local paper and then wait for the however many weeks it took to see a reply, if the columnist bothered to choose their letter and then post it in the paper. The letters read like this:
Dear Doctor Endwell,
I’ve been bleeding out of my eyes for about six months now. It’s starting to worry me. Should I see someone?
Going Pale in Jersey
Am I the only person who is disturbed by those write-in doctor columns in the newspaper? I’ve reached the point where I don’t dare even read the headlines on these for fear that I’ll hear about yet another exotic ailment about which I never even knew to be worried before. Every week, people whose skin is mysteriously sloughing off their bodies are writing to ask if there’s anything unusual about that. Housewives are bursting into flame and writing to ask if there’s an herbal supplement that soothes the burning. Office temps from the Midwest are sending letters, curious to know if having pens lodged in their skulls is something that can be fixed at home without bothering to bill their insurance.
More worrisome than these people who apparently can’t figure out, without the help of a mail-in medical columnist, whether they should see their doctor when they’ve been struck repeatedly by lightning or bitten on their faces by rattlesnakes, are the people for whom television medical commercials are targeted.
Zoboflax is not for everyone. If you have kidney failure, a serious heart condition, terminal cancer, or a space alien living inside your sternum, tell your doctor.
Shouldn’t your doctor already KNOW about these things? I mean, who goes to their doctor and says, “Doc, I was watching Friends the other night, and during the commercial break I was informed that I should ask you if Zoboflax is right for me. Oh, by the way, my immune system isn’t normal because I’m dying. I thought that might be relevant.”
Frankly, when I go to my doctor, I’m not about to give him any ideas. I see visits to my doctor as a kind of game in which I test his ability TO KNOW WHAT MIGHT BE KILLING ME without my input. That’s why he went to school, right? If I have an alien living inside my sternum, I figure it’s his job to pick up on that – and it’s also his job to prescribe something that I don’t have to tell him about.
“Gosh, I’m sorry, but you… you’ve got an alien living inside you.”
“Yes, I was wondering when you’d notice before it came through my chest.”
“I’d prescribe something, but to be honest, I’m fresh out of ideas.”
“How about Zoboflax? Is it right for me?”