The Ads on the Golf Channel

The ads on the Golf Channel are, by and large, no pun

intended, for erectile dysfunction.  Seriously? Go figure.

While six or seven white collared or

 

yarmulked men, obviously, seriously of the cloth, who kept their hands

in plain view on the table (this is no sophomoric joking matter), testi-

fied in a very serious manner

 

and got aroused by the heady dialogue, doctors of divine law called by

secular legislators to testify authoritatively about the mons veneris

in their minds and

 

wherever else they could stick their probing teacher’s black-board pointers

to titillate and tickle the clitoris, rub the vagina and just stroke that

whole soft, sweet and salty honey pot

 

of an area before piercing it in a very medicinally appropriately

ultra-sound silent way completely, completely without permission

of the one spread legged on the table.

 

It sure had the feel that the ecclesiastical guys were so profound in

their testimony with such subsequently piercing and penetrating

dialogue that one

 

could almost feel the tingling and twitching going on under the table

of the women’s last supper.  And then there was the womb-man legislator

who got up and left,

 

refusing to attend such a last supper purported to be an above-board,

obviously, objectively public inquiry into the female pubic and

aforementioned, previously private parts;

 

and there was the female law student who just wanted to mention

her friend who grew obscenely large ovarian cysts if she didn’t

get birth control pills, which would stop

 

the cysts in their tracks.  Hell, she wasn’t even talking about sex.

She didn’t get to speak but because it wasn’t about foreplay, the

legislators and the doctors

 

of divinity probably wouldn’t have been interested anyway.  Anyhow,

she didn’t address the august body and while all that was going on,

the big cyst-

 

sister lost an ovary and may not ever be able to birth a child.

In a Phoenix strip-mall parking lot, sat a really attractive, rear

end, butt, bumper with a sticker that proclaimed,

 

“If you cut off my right to choice, may I cut off yours?”