It’s been suggested that “Big Pharma,” like Titan Tobacco, compensate for damages derived from “opiates.” I call them “junk drugs.”

Witness wacky ads where elephants sit on asthma sufferers. Should an elephant actually squat thereon, that’d surely put an end to any undue suffering. From insomnia and incontinence to indigestion, ridiculous remedies are hustled relentlessly on the nightly news broadcasts where Medicare enrollees such as myself wax nostalgic for Andy Rooney.

I’m not into Tony Siracusa’s “manhood” protective pads yet — but I’ve priced ‘em.

Alas, I suffer from “Low T” (read: low testosterone), at least the commercials suggest I do. A handsome lad wearing but a towel swabs the new goo under his armpits. Unshaven, virile — this dude’s ready for some action, whereas I’m ready for a nap.

Following a routine blood test verifying my lack of said “T,” my doctor dispensed free samples. “Good luck, old fella,” sez he.

After several applications, I read the litany of side effects including (among other annoyances) loss of sleep, vomiting, headache — possible gangrene and — “an increased chance of prostate cancer.” Hello! End of treatment. I threw the canister away. My wife retrieved it. “Be patient, old fella” scribes she on a note.

Thank God ,spring’s finally arrived. My dog and I both put on a few pounds after surviving the winter on oatmeal/raisin cookies. Although she doesn’t seem to suffer from “Low T” (possibly attributable to her gender), we’re going to step up our exercise by going on longer walks. See how that works. Steadfastly resolved, I’ll say, “Nay!” to nachos, “begone!” to brewski’s and snub Snickers.

The river’s open again. My kayak (should I still fit) may remedy my “Low T.” Can’t hurt to try. Now, where’s me paddle?

Buddy DoyleGardiner

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