There are very few absolutes in life. You will absolutely pay income taxes. You will absolutely breathe. You will absolutely stop breathing for a few moments when your income tax return triggers an IRS audit (I know this one from personal experience). You will absolutely die when you stop breathing long enough to starve your brain of the oxygen it requires in order to keep your bodily functions happening.

Another absolute: You will absolutely be forced to endure watching embarrassing commercials on television. You know the ones I mean. They go something like this:

(fade in to scene of unrealistically beautiful mother and lookalike teenaged daughter strolling blissfully along a beach as the sun rises over the horizon in beautiful technicolor)

Daughter: "Mom... do you ever get that.. well.. that Not So Fresh Feeling?"

Mother: "You mean when your crotch smells like the Canal Street Fishmarket? Yes, dear, all sexually active women have those days, if we don't actually use soap and water on a regular basis between boinkings."

Daughter: "What can I do to avoid groin-stench, Mom?"

Mother: "On those weeks when I just feel like being a skanky non-bathing ho-bag, honey, I use this!"

(Mother yanks a gigantic spray can from her purse. The can is hot pink with cartoon roses emblazoned on its surface, and it bears a photograph of a wide open, drippingly diseased vulva on its front)

Mother: "Ho-Bag Stink-Be-Gone Spray! Guaranteed to stop that foul ordure that attracts stray cats and rut-hungry boars to your crotch! Try it today!"

Daughter: "I'm so glad that you're a filthy sleaze too, Mom, so that you can help me learn these things."

Mother: "That's my little girl!"

(Mother and Daughter embrace in glee as the sun bursts into fullness, shedding golden light all over the beach. Jingle plays in the background.)

Jingle: Ho-Bag Stink-Be-Gone Spray
If you are skanky, sleazy and gross
You may carry a filthy disease
But from your smell no one will guess you're a host!

(end commercial)

Now, I don't know about the rest of you, but I find these commercials obnoxious in the extreme. I really don't want to know about the aroma of another woman's yahoo, and for some reason, I doubt very much that most other people are interested in it either. I also don't want to know about which tampon they prefer, or which sanitary napkin sucks up the most fluid. (Those pad ads always remind me of Pampers ads. Disposable diapers for women!) I have no interest in hearing about another woman's need for a bra that lifts and separates due to the fact that they spent their formative years braless and their nipples keep brushing against their ankles when they walk. I am not impressed by ads of older women talking about their "embarrassing leakage" issues, or the fact that from these ads, one would get the strong impression that only women ever suffer bladder incontinence.

If we as a society really think that sexism is gone, we are wearing blinders. All we need to do is turn on the TV and see for ourselves. Stench-Be-Gone, Plug-Me-Up, Peepee-Absorball, Bind-Me-Up Brassieres, they are all there. Meanwhile, the ads aimed at men are for beer, athlete's foot spray, motor oil, and shaving cream.

I am demanding that Madison Avenue begin equality in advertising. What does this mean?

It means that I insist that for every ad that shows women discussing their personal body parts and how they handle them, we should see a similar one for men. This means jock itch creams and sprays, erection inducing lotions, absorbant penis socks to wear if you are subject to nocturnal emissions, jock strap and testicular hernia truss ads and similar products. And while I'm on this subject, MEN HAVE INCONTINENCE PROBLEMS TOO, so let's hear more about that, dammit! Viagra ads featuring Bob Dole simply are Not Good Enough.

I have a fantasy that one day my husband will be watching the Super Bowl and we will see an ad during half time that runs something like this:

(Father and Son are sitting at the end of a pier, fishing for shark, as the sun rises slowly over the horizon.)

Son: "Gee Dad, I'm sure glad Mom and Sis are off talking about girl stuff, Dad, because, see, I wanted to ask you.. do you ever have those "Ewww, I'm Sticky" mornings?

Dad: "Why yes, Son, I do! You see, your mother is a frigid old sow with me (but from her copious use of feminine hygiene products I assume she's boffing the mailman, the UPS guy, and the neighbor's doberman pinscher), so I tend to get very frustrated, and when I don't masturbate often enough, I have hot dreams where Drew Barrymore is wrapping her luscious pink lips around my ho-ho-dilly and.. Oh Man. What were you talking about, son?"

Son: "Her BREASTS, Dad, tell me about Drew's BREASTS!"

Dad: "No, thats NC-17, and you are only ready for PG-13. Right, you were asking about Sticky Mornings. Okay, if you keep blowing a wad in your dreams, then you need to use the same thing I do."

(Dad reaches into his fishing creel and pulls out a garishly labeled box that bears a photograph of Drew Barrymore lasciviously fondling a thick cotton socklike object on its cover.)

Dad: "Wet-Dream-Sucker! This clever little object slides right over your schlong in the evening when you put on your jammies, and stays there to absorb any sticky gooey foofoo that you should release during hot dreams about Drew Barrymore, Paris Hilton, or even Johnny Depp! Wet-Dream-Sucker, for those "Damn that bitch, will I ever get laid again?" nights!"

Son: "Wet-Dream-Sucker! For those "Damn! Will I ever get laid at ALL?" nights!"

(Camera pulls back as the Son's fishing pole begins to jerk wildly.)

Dad: "Whoa son, don't yank on it so hard, you could get a blister!"

Son: "I think it's gonna be bigger than yours, Dad!"

(Father and Son laugh and laugh as they pull on the son's pole together. Jingle plays.)

"Use Wet-Dream-Sucker every night
Especially if you're a loner
Your sheets won't be gooey, you won't have a fright
When you go to sleep with a boner!"

Voice-Over of Son: "Dad... that's not my fishing rod!"

(Fade out)

Oh, don't I just wish it.