Whittle: TV spots may maim you

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OK, which prank-pulling buddy is responsible? I think someone is siccing these companies on me.
I didn't know I was depressed until I recently got targeted in an advertisement for a new miracle drug/concoction that helps out with depression ... oops ... wrong-o it was a pill to help me with my love life. Now, I'm depressed, for I didn't know I had a problem in my love life.
Problem is I can't cipher the miracle pill's wording in the mail-out, until I get new glasses, as prescribed by a recently unsolicited email advertisement about my vision over the internet.
But in the future, I may be able to "hear" unsolicited TV commercials, now that someone must have whispered loudly to this hearing aid company I needed an inconspicuous ear plug hearing aid.
But that uninvited commercial did make me recollect my last hearing test, that revealed after 50 years of conducting newspaper interviews by phone, my left ear is hearing less than the right ear.
So now, the left ear is what I turn in wife Pat's direction when she tells me it's time for me to put up the dishes and pick up my socks and underwear.
Which now brings me to my drawers! "Drawers" is old time "slang" for underwear.
There I was the other evening, looking nice, you know...the Whittle way while dressed in the nude for beddy-bye time, when the TV aired a new brand of underwear that doesn't "stink." But hell, since my memory has left the scene, I can't recall which company makes the underwear that doesn't "stink."
OK, which smart-butt pal put Little Danny Whittle in the cross-hairs of a weight loss company??
No worries about my weight, though, since a few years ago, two sweet little girls at church one Sunday morning christened me thusly while gently patting my robust tummy: "Brother Dan, you're not fat, you're just fluffy."
Unfortunately, Sunday school pals named David, Mark and Gary overheard the "christening" and now I'm forever called "Brother Fluffy" in the halls at mighty Smyrna Parkway Baptist. Amen!
Good golly, of all things, I was flabbergasted when a commercial mail-out arrived addressed to Danielle Whittle, pointing me, or her, toward buying some new and improved bras with uplift, whatever that is?! (Must have mistaken me for Bruce/Caitlyn Jenner...who knows???)
That triggered a memorable milestone of life, back to first grade at our little, farm town school of advanced thinking and higher ciphering.
My trauma began a fateful long-ago Wednesday night at "prayer meeting" when my first grade teacher bragged in wonderment to Momma Whittle how Little Danny Whittle knew how to spell a woman's "brassiere" while only in first grade.
Which got me a whipping at home later that night after church prayer meeting, while Momma Whittle stated firmly over-and-over I had embarrassed the family in front of the whole school, and God in front of the entire Baptist congregation.
Whewee! For the unlearned out there in newspaper land, today's "bra" evolved from the big old entire Frenchy word, "brassiere," that I learned to spell by looking at the girly underwear pictures in the old Sears-Roebuck catalogues that had multiple duties in our shack out back. And that was before "stink" was removed from underwear.

I still get traumatized when "brazziere" is mentioned within hearing distance of my good right ear.
Favorite Sunday school teacher Dr. I.N. Sheffield recently warned against eye-balling recent hamburger commercials on TV, saying those commercials, that focus on the rear-ends of near-nekkid scantily clad female volley ball players, could send a soul straight to hell.
Every time that burger promo comes on, I call my Sunday school teacher, warning him "not to look" on a certain TV channel.
One thing I do agree about with TV commercials.
It's clear those car manufacturing folks cannot sell cars without pretty and sweet little doggies being in their 30-second TV commercials. If a Buick is good enough for Fido, it's good enough for Dano.
It is clear there would be no television if not for medication commercials.
One new medical miracle, as advertised on TV, claimed to cure my rheumatism, but could cause me to drive off a cliff while in depression up on Short Mountain. If that ever happens, maybe wife Pat can call one of those lawyers who advertise millions of dollars on television for victims.
I'll keep on keeping on with aching brittle Whittle bones, rather than taking a chance on killing myself.
I've got a favor to ask, if and when you see that TV commercial advertising "no stink underwear" give me a call, if you can identify that company. For I'm at the age, that I can't remember "s - - -."

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Dan Whittle
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