I don't know if this has already been posted and am too lazy to look..

Diary of a Viagra Housewife
Day 1.
Just celebrated our 25th wedding anniversary with not much to celebrate. When it came time to reenact our wedding night, he locked himself in the bathroom and cried. Wussy.

Day 2.
Today, he says he has a big secret to tell me. He’s impotent, he says, and he wants me to be the first to know. Why doesn’t he tell me something I don’t know! I mean, gimme a break. He’s been dysfunctional for so long that he even walks with a limp.

Day 3.
This marriage is in trouble. A woman has needs! Yesterday, I saw a picture of the Washington Monument and burst into tears.

Day 4.
A miracle has happened! There’s a new drug on the market that will fix his ‘problem.’ It’s called Viagra. I told him that if he takes Viagra, things will be just like they were on our wedding night. He said, this time, I’d rather not have your mother join us. I think this will work. I replaced his Prozac with the Viagra, hoping to lift something other than his mood.

Day 7.
This Viagra thing has gone to his head. No pun intended! Yesterday, at Burger King, the manager asked me if I’d like a Whopper. He thought they were talking about him. Get over yourself! Not everything is about you! But, I have to admit . . . .

Day 8.
I think he took too many over the weekend. Yesterday, instead of mowing the lawn, he was using his new friend as a weed wacker. Sore as hell. . . .

Day 10.
Okay, I admit it. I’m hiding. I mean, a girl can only take so much. And to make matters worse, he’s washing the Viagra down with hard cider! The photo of Janet Reno isn’t working. What am I gonna do? I feel tacky all over . .

Day 11.
The side effects are starting to get to him. Everything is turning blue. The other day, we were watching Kenneth Branaugh in Hamlet and he thought it was “The Smurfs Do Denmark.” Even my armpits hurt. He’s a nasty man.

Day 12.
OK, I’m basically being drilled to death. It’s like going out with a Black and Decker power tool. I woke up this morning hot-glued to the bed.

Day 13.
I wish he was gay. I bought 400 Liza Minelli albums and I keep saying ‘fabulous,’ and still he keeps coming after me! Even yawning has become dangerous . . . .

Day 14.
Now I know how Saddam Hussein’s wife feels. Every time I shut my eyes, there’s a sneak attack! It’s like going to bed with a scud missile. Let’s hope he’s not like ex-President Bush and takes 100 days to pull out. . . I can hardly walk and if he tries that “Oops, sorry” butt-thing again, I’m gonna kill him.

Day 15.
I’ve done everything to turn him off. Nothing is working. I even started dressing like a nun. Now he tells me “Sister Wendy” makes “Father Woody” want to bark like a dog. Help me.

Day 16.
I think I will have to kill him. Then he’ll go out the way he wants to - stiff. With my luck, I won’t be able to close the casket. I’m starting to adhere to everything I sit on. The cats are afraid of him and the neighbors no longer come over. Last night I told him to go screw himself; he did. He must die.