Friday, November 1, 2013
PORFLE VS. CONSTANT SEXUAL STIMULATION
Okay, I'll admit it--I have sexual organs. And sex gets my attention. I get the message already!
So please stop trying to sell me stuff by shoving sex in my face 24 hours a day. It's okay when I choose to watch or buy something specifically because of sex, but I'm tired of being forced to get a boner every time I turn on the TV or open a magazine just so some clowns can try to sell me a bunch of worthless crap. Give me a friggin' break--it's no fun being "on deck" all the time.
Sometimes I wanna just kick back in my La-Z-Boy and relax with a mindless TV show like "The Capitol Gang", and just when me Dennis Morgans (that's British rhyming slang for "sexual organs") are enjoying a well-deserved break, BLAM! Big, bouncing hooters come flying out of my TV trying to sell me tacos. Or some really hot chick's round, quivering buttocks are reminding me to upgrade my computer software.
My naughty bits go on full alert status--they don't know it's just a drill. "Abort! Abort! Mission status negative!" I scream, but to no avail. They're locked and loaded. I give the order to stand down, but it goes unheeded. Such blatant insubordination is common within the ranks of sexual organs these days. And, unfortunately, the only solution for this is a dishonorable discharge.
Things that no one in their right mind could ever possibly be interested in buying instantly become more appealing if they have hot, dripping globules of sex slathered over them. I bought some crappy comic book once just because it had a cover painting of this incredibly sexy babe. I think she was supposed to be some kind of superhero--you know, the kind that runs around dressed like one of the Pussycat Dolls. If getting the bad guys horny is a superpower, then she must've been a really effective crimefighter. But somehow I doubt if getting a throbbing boner all of a sudden is going to stop the Joker from trying to take over Gotham City.
Anyway, I bought it, took it home, did what I was compelled to do with it, and then was stuck with this, like, five-dollar piece of crap that I had absolutely no interest in reading because not only did the inner artwork suck compared to the cover, but the story was about as interesting as watching little kids pet a goat for six hours.
Pop music is even worse. Do Madonna, Britney, and/or their current clones come up with great songs and present them for our listening entertainment? No, they cough up whatever generic dog poop with a beat that they can pile some new flab-flouncing choreography onto and then see how nearly-nekkid and naughty they can get away with being while spazzing out onstage at some MTV award show. "OOOH, MILEY TWERKED ROBIN! SPLOOGE!!!"
And speaking of Madonna--if she had to get by on her voice and music alone, she'd still be blowing winos for coke money behind a bowling alley in Michigan. Most people never bought a Madonna album simply because it just sounded so darn good. They bought it because Madonna used to prance around the stage wearing fake pointy boobs and stuff. I hate to say it, but if fake pointy boobs are the reason people are buying your album, you need to shut up.
And now that the rapidly-aging Madonna's fake pointy boobs have begun to migrate south, she'd better start sounding a hell of a lot better. Or else think of a way to make horny teenagers get turned on by someone who's starting to look like Granny from "The Beverly Hillbillies."
I like to listen to homely people because I can enjoy their music without the discomfort of constant sexual stimulation. The butt-ugly dudes in Pink Floyd don't turn me on. Devo doesn't suddenly turn me into Casey at the bat. I still listen to the Spice Girls sometimes, but they look like a bunch of googly-eyed fruitcakes to me, so no problem there. Now, one of my all-time favorite albums is "Zasu" by Rosie Vela, and she used to be a Ford model. But she had actual talent, and her album cover doesn't have giant rooty-toots catapulting out at me or anything.
I used to go to nudie bars and stuff, until I realized that I wasn't enjoying myself in them at all. It's like getting really hungry and then going to a restaurant where you're only allowed to look at the food but you have to pay for it anyway. Imagine being famished and walking into a cafeteria where you move down the buffet line going "Oh man, that Salisbury steak looks awesome" or "Mmm, just smell those scrumptious buffalo wings", and then you get to the end of the line and have to pay for everything you just looked at and walk out hungrier than ever. That's what going to a nudie bar is like. Unless, of course, you can afford to go back into the "special" room, which might as well be on Mars as far as I'm concerned.
In the old days, if average slobs wanted to see T & A they'd buy a "particular kind" of magazine. They'd keep it under the bed or safely tucked away in a drawer under their socks and underwear, where it remained dormant until called into service during a crisis. Nowadays, everything is one big masturpalooza. TV shows, commercials, comic books, music, food--anything that is produced in order to be sold to gullible peckerheads like us hangs heavy with the pungent, inescapable aura of whack-off. We live in a whack-off culture.
And continuously being forced to deal with this is a tiresome burden. I actually think that constant overuse has caused my right hand to age ten to twenty years faster than my left hand. Sure, it's got kung-fu grip, and it can open the hell out of pickle jars, but I'm afraid one of these days I'm gonna wake up and there'll be a claw on the end of my arm. And if that ever happens, I'll have to either become ambidexterous real quick, or climb into a sensory-deprivation tank filled with morphine and never come out.