I'm usually not the type of person who sees an advertisement on television and decides to apply for another credit card in order to get whatever Mexican-made product it is that the washed-up former-Beverly Hills 90210 star is hawking. But I'll have to admit that I'm a sucker for those Valtrex commercials.
You know – the ones where some hot chick is white water-rafting or mountain-biking or whatever and at the end she informs you that she doesn't let genital herpes slow her down. And just to prove it, the commercials always show her with some ripped dude who I'm totally not attracted to because that would be gay and – despite what my friends say – those drawings that I keep in the bottom drawer of my dresser aren't of him but are for a comic book that I've been working on and any similarities between Captain Radical Dude's long, flowing locks of golden hair and ripped abs and the commercial-dude's is a total coincidence… seriously… I promise… damn it, I'm not gay…
Anyway, I always half-expect the boyfriend in those commercials to be like "What!?! You've got herpes!?! You dumb slut! We've been going out for like five months now and you decided to tell me this shit while we're rock-climbing in a television commercial? I'm outta here, ho…"
And until I saw those commercials, I never realized that having a sexually-transmitted disease could kick so much ass. In high school they always told us that STDs were a bad deal and that only homos and people who do marijuana owned them; but if they were wrong about beer, maybe they're wrong about STDs too. I mean – the chick in that commercial is having a blast participating in extreme sports and listening to the commercial's soundtrack which features one of those bands that used to rock Lilith Fair, and all my disease-free ass did last weekend was watch TV Land marathons and eat frozen pizzas. Maybe a good case of genital herpes is just what I need to kick-start my social-life.
The only problem with genital herpes is finding the right place to get 'em. If you go up to some girl in a bar and ask her if she's got genital herpes (or "the Peter Pox", as it's called on the street), you're likely to end up with a slap in the face and a Smirnoff Ice-flavored shirt. So your best bet is just to slam ham with the sluttiest sluts that you know, and hope for the best.
Sorry, but my right hand is already spoken for…Powered by Sidelines