Category: Essays & Bad Ideas

An assortment of ramblings; some thoughtful, some thoughtless

Dear Bedtime #1

Someone recently asked if I thought she should cheat on her age-appropriate boyfriend with her much-older college professor. I decided to answer her publicly for the edification of all.

Dear Aspiring Tramp:

I seldom give advice, and when I do, it should always be assumed to come with a disclaimer indicating that I’m not an authority on jack-shit. You silly things know I get off on playing with your emotions… what on earth makes you think my input is going to lead to anything more than a series of very arousing mistakes?

With that said, I hope you bang the professor. What’s the point of having a boyfriend, if not to make sex hotter with the guys you fuck behind his back? Chances are, your cunt is craving the guilt as much as the academic cock. And I suspect you already know that, since you’re asking the opinIon of someone who gets off on the guilty secrets of misbehaving girls.

Just imagine how amazing it will feel! Not simply the betrayal of a petty trust –he’s not your husband, after all– but all of it, all the possible repercussions. I mean, eventually, your whoreish proclivities will end the relationship… you’ll get caught, if only because you want to. What happens then? Your boy goes off jaded and embittered, a little wiser, a little more cruel. It’s like you’re giving a special sort of gift to the next girl who comes into his life; he’ll take the things you’ve taught him about wayward women and apply them to her: with any luck, he’ll make that little bitch suffer for your sins.

In fact, if you want things to be perfect as you degrade yourself with your ethically flexible authority figure, I have a suggestion. While that learned old man dick is sawing in and out of your thirsty, amoral holes, just picture your boy choking the shit out of his next sweetheart and calling her a faithless slut. It’s not like she won’t have it coming.

I mean, you already know he has wretched taste in women!

Go away now.

Dear Game of War:

Congratulations! You have my undivided attention! Do you have any idea how difficult it is to make me hate the sight of Kate Upton? It’s like you’re practicing some weird, psychological alchemy, where you transmute my love of tits into a barely-suppressed urge to throw my iPad across the room.

Now that I’ve acknowledged the cleverness and success of your little experiment, can you pretty-please stop poking me with a jiggly, blonde stick everywhere I go online? I’d really appreciate it.

RESOLVED: Women > Fleshlights

[TRIGGER WARNING: Avert your eyes while I write awful things.]

I keep seeing posts asserting that a woman is a marginal substitute for a cooch-in-a-can, and while I understand the sentiment, I think it’s worth remembering that —in reality— women are far more versatile than any silicone snatch squeezed into a plastic travel mug.

  • Fleshlights don’t cry.
  • A Fleshlight won’t blush when you spit on it and call it a whore.
  • Fleshlights don’t beg.
  • A Fleshlight won’t try to run away, trip on the panties tangled around its ankles, and fall hilariously face-first to the floor.
  • A Fleshlight can’t apologize for making you do horrible things to it.
  • A Fleshlight never bothers to clean itself up after your friends use it.
  • A Fleshlight made me a sandwich once, and let me tell you, it had this terrible, rubbery after-taste. No bueno.
  • Giving your drug dealer fifteen minutes alone with your Fleshlight won’t net you more than a contact high.
  • Taking your Fleshlight to your 20th high school reunion turns out to only be about half as cool as you’d expect.
  • If you take a Fleshlight to a club and try to grind on it during an extended remix of Lil Jon’s Get Low, there’s an excellent chance you’ll be asked to leave. (Don’t ask. I just know.)

Maybe I’m alone in this, but I feel it’s important to pause once in a while and recognize all the amazing things that chicks bring to our lives. It just feels like the right thing to do.

Cranky Old Man Shit: Photography

I’m going to get patronizing and paternalistic for a minute… yes, I mean more so than usual. Because I wish some of you crazy bitches could unilaterally reassess your relationship with photography.

Still photography is one of the most unnatural, inhuman inventions in civilization’s robust portfolio. Human bodies aren’t designed to be frozen in time and analyzed in minute detail; we’re all just unseemly, fleshy facades over a rickety scaffold, and only in motion do most of us come alive.

Now, the fact is that there are a tiny number of people in this world who look naturally at home when folded into the harsh little dimensions of a photo, and a substantially larger pool of others who have learned to seem at home where they are not. And if we all looked at what they create and said to ourselves “wow, what amazing talent,” shit would be grand.

But that’s not what happens. We instead conflate “taking a pretty picture” with “being pretty”, even though every fucking one of us has seen that screencap of Beyoncé at the Super Bowl, and thus have conclusive proof that even one of the most attractive women on Earth is fully capable of looking like a tendon-y nightmare-troll when her physicality is deprived of its flow and context. It isn’t Photoshop that distorts reality; it’s the camera itself.

Which is not a flaw in the technology, of course; it does something awe-inspiring in making art out of moments. But that’s what it always is: art, a constructed truth, a cleverly selected slice of life.

Nothing more.