More Depressing Than Losing Is Reading Fine Print on Drug Labels

Please, don’t talk to me about the Pulitzers. I lost again. This means 30 successive years of losing. Kids half my age are winning Pulitzers now. Punks. I was losing the Pulitzer before they were even born!

I’m so depressed. I’m anxious. I’m worried. I’m restless. I feel tense.

Relax, Tony, BuSpar can help you handle it.

BuSpar is one of those cool new drugs that promise you the good life. BuSpar is for anxiety. That’s its slogan: “Relax, BuSpar can help you handle it.”

In the same magazine where I discovered BuSpar, I saw ads for loads of cool new drugs. Prilosec for heartburn. Its slogan, I swear, is: “It’s Prilosec Time.” Go grab a six-pack! Vioxx for arthritis. Nasonex for allergies. Aricept for Alzheimer’s disease. Denavir for cold sores. Sonata for sleeping. And Revolution is for your cat!

When I was younger, I would have happily taken all those drugs.

I come from the ‘60s, man.

Oh, from the way you write, I thought you were 60.

Now, I’m afraid to take anything because the government makes drug companies print “adverse reactions.”

Headache, diarrhea, abdominal pain, nausea, dizziness, flatulence, sweating, vomiting.

And that’s just from trying to open one of those childproof caps!

It’s much worse when you actually take something. You get “bloody stools,” “uncontrollable oozing,” “occasional sexual dysfunction” and “altered micturition.” (Trust me, you don’t want to know what that is.)

How about this with an arthritis drug: “Stomach and intestinal bleeding can occur with or without warning symptoms. These problems, if severe, could lead to hospitalization or death.”

Death. Hmmmm. Wouldn’t that be worse than arthritis?

I love how they advertise these drugs on TV. There are a few seconds of peaceful music, and a shot of a woman dancing in a field, all her problems solved. Then, a voice quietly lists a few possible side effects--dry mouth, intestinal discomfort, a shock of nose hair. As the music plays tranquilly in the background, you could swear you hear: “Oh, occasionally, someone takes this drug and begins projectile vomiting like a fire hose.”

Or: “The other day, a steel worker in Iowa took this, and in the middle of lunch, he had an uncontrollable urge to put on a strapless gown and sing, ‘Near, far, whereevvvvver you are . . .’ ”

Clearly, the government has taken all the fun out of taking drugs. Which just makes me more depressed.

You know what else has made me depressed? The panda thing at the National Zoo.

Ever since Hsing-Hsing died last November (in what we’ve come to call the Pre-Darva Era), we’ve been panda-less at the National Zoo. His mate, Ling-Ling, died in 1992. She suffered a toxic reaction to Prilosec. It made her anorexic, and she ultimately slipped through the cage bars and was run over by an L-4 bus on Connecticut Avenue. When Hsing-Hsing was told, he padded slowly to the back of his cage and spent the next seven years eating Fritos and watching “The Simpsons” in silence.

There was a suggestion that Hsing-Hsing be stuffed. But the head of the Smithsonian said it wasn’t appropriate to stuff such a beloved animal. I agree. I say chop Hsing-Hsing into small patties and grill him up.

So, now, we’re trying to get new pandas from China, and they’re hosing us. They’ll rent us a couple of pandas--for a million dollars a year for 10 years.

Come on, Jiang, these are pandas, not quality, left-handed relief pitchers.

How are we supposed to come up with that kind of cash? The zoo is free. Its only source of income would be to humanely turn the seals upside down and shake out the “wishing coins” they’ve swallowed. Each seal ought to yield between $6 and $8 in dimes and quarters.

Personally, I don’t think pandas are worth it. Do they do tricks, like circus bears? No. They sit around doing squadoosh.

America’s Feature Writer, Mr. Henry, agrees with me. “Who do they think they are, charging us for viewing rights?” Mr. Henry asks. It was not lost on Mr. Henry that the last set of pandas we got from China were not exactly Mr. and Mrs. Saturday Night.

“Are we getting any guarantees these pandas will not lie huddled in a pile of leaves where you can’t see them, like the last ones?” Mr. Henry asks.

Maybe they were depressed.

Nothing a little Revolution wouldn’t fix.