A few days ago I have posted something about real women having curves called: Real Unicorns Have Curves ! and I got a lot of cool commentary. I thought to post something in the vein to see what you all thought. So here it goes !!!
Or is it Rolls
I will start at the end.
Today my friend and former high-school classmate sent me a picture from our yearbook of part of our class on the steps of St Patrick’s Cathedral giving a sermon. There I was a young man of 17 on the hallowed steeps of this historic Cathedral breaking off knowledge as if it was bread in order to feed the multitudes of the hungry questioning souls. I have taken the liberty of call this the Sermon on the Queefs. (For those who do not know a queef is an expulsion of wind from the vulva during coitus.)
We spent last Friday evening cruising the streets of both NY and Jersey City reminiscing and talking recklessly. I was reminded about my failure to behave at opportune moments like when I got kicked off the Speech and debate team (and other teams), how I put some underclass men in garbage cans (we were friends at the time), and made a mortal enemy of this chick by nicknaming her Stache after Tom Selleck the eponymous mustache wearing star of the 1980’s. And go figure it turns out I’ve been saying off the wall shit since high school. If we had camera phones, and all the amenities kids today have, it would have been a wrap for me.
I actually had fun. I feel that our culture sucks all the fun and vivaciousness out of life. I have always found that there is an underlying comedic thread that runs through life. To that end I have always identified with the the trickster energy or archetype.
In mythology, and in the study of folklore and religion, a trickster is a god, goddess, spirit, man, woman, or anthropomorphic animal who plays tricks or otherwise disobeys normal rules and conventional behavior. I like the shades of grey, that region bound by neither a or not A neither b or not B. Armed with fuzzy logic is how I like to look at the world. I like riddles and being confounded.
Which brings me back to the sermon on the Queefs. Was it in bad taste to give this sermon on the cathedral steps ? Perhaps, well it can’t be worst than child fucking on the inside the church.
I found it odd historically that in Christianity, the suffering Christ (when he is being tortured and eventually crucified) is called his passion. Choosing the word passion set humanity back a few hundred years. For example our warped interpretation of the word made the passion of coitus something shameful or illicit as well as partying to excess, and all forms or merry-making. It’s like for centuries under the grips of epic small-mindedness, we couldn’t understand that our animalistic urges and need for fun are not to be shunned and suppressed but they are a necessary part of our existence. I think that why working in a cold feeling-less cubicle is my nightmare, or working those jobs where all expression and displays of personality are frowned upon
I would think that the sacred and the profane are both sides of the same coin that allow as us to progress as persons or as spiritual beings or as whatever it is we/you are. I think that is where we make many mistakes focus too much on any one face of the coin and we become psychologically imbalanced. I’ve always felt balance was what was to be strived for
Anyways that is it. I hope I’ve inspired you to give your own sermon in an inappropriate place.
It’s 3:09 AM and I am still awake for reasons unknown. I am going to write something unprecedented for your viewing pleasure. Have you noticed that every month or so there is somebody who write a letter to their future self or to their loved one to be read after they shuffle off their mortal coil? Those things go viral! I thought I would join the trend just to be a dick. I too want to go viral, safely without getting an STD. Every day we are given so many reasons to leave behind our pettiness and live life more fully. Yet we, myself included, spend all this time going through the motions and pretending we are better than we think we are. So with that in mind here is my letter
Dear 65 years old MrMary
I cannot imagine what it feels like to overcome yet another statistic. You dodged being incarcerated, having a child out of wedlock and that dying from a serious crack addiction narrative which was part of your social contract. Now you managed to live till 65. Of course, living so long comes with a price. I’m guessing that at 65 your prostate is enlarged and to add insult to injury no chicks want to fuck a 65 year old. Correction: no hot chick wants to fuck a 65 year old living from pension check to pension check. But it’s all good though. I imagine watching porn is less of an investment. You can turn it off after the guy delivers the pizza, because that’s probably all the thrill you can take at your age:food. Food makes the pain of loss go down easier, am I right?
I’m sure your glad I am not wasting words telling you trite platitudes like everyone else does at this point in their letter. You know what I mean:
- Life is messy
- Just because I did that girls gone wild video, I’m still a good person
- All the struggling was worth it,
- What doesn’t kill you make’s you stronger.
That last one is my favorite, I always wanted to ask a soldier who survived being wounded in the genitals how he felt stronger having to stick a pair of truck nuts down his trouser to feel like a man again?
We learned long ago that life isn’t beautiful or alluring or sad or painful. Life just is. It continues on long after we’ve died. Sad, alluring, painful and happy are just terms we apply to situations that either benefit us or not. When we feel pain life is painful. When we feel happy life is happy. When we feel itchy from having a bad case of the crabs life is trying.
Right now I’m 32, and I like to think I live as free as I can. I have no box of pictures or mementos of times past. A hundred years after the last person to have seen me alive (hopefully a blond nurse that like to sponge bathe me) dies there will be no trace that I ever walked the earth. So why bother? Did I get to do all the stuff on my sarcastic bucket list? Did I finally open a jewelry store named pearl necklace? Did I get to put that All persons fictitious disclaimer sticker (All characters appearing in this work are fictitious. Any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental) in the inside cover of all the hotel bibles I stayed in? Did I ever ask an effeminate tattoo artist to draw the map of Hawaii on my chest, ya know for shits and giggles? Or how about the books store named Stacked with all the aspiring voluptuous women who make up for their illiteracy with over the top enthusiasm?
I don’t know what else I’m supposed to say. Looking at these other people’s letters to themselves there is always some sort of pep talk about working hard, and taking chances because they pay off. Only people who didn’t struggle much say that. You remember the time there was that gun fight downstairs in the lobby and our pops only walked away with a piece of a bullet in his foot and his life. I would have loved for those people then to come in with a pep talk about life being hard and taking chances.
I wonder if I had a family. I mean that would change things. If I did you are probably reading this in a sanitized home where you will die in the care of strangers. If not you probably live in an old apartment hopefully not far from the beach where the sound of the waves lapping gentling over the sand , sounds like a second heart beat to your ears. I remember and you may too, when we were little and used to think that if we put our ear to everyone’s chest it would sound like the ocean, because it always felt so hollow and empty there?
But you know, I have nothing nice to say and I can’t keep my mouth shut.
I only hope that despite your memory fading, you remember the nights you spent up late: listening to everyone snore and sleep. You weren’t so worried about what tomorrow would bring and you were not distraught by what the past had taken from you. You just wanted to get into it already and get things over with so you can rest. I have always found it strange that for an eternity before we found ourselves here we were non existent. For an eternity after we pass we will be non-existent. Yet we hold onto the few scenes that comprise a human life? That like trying to prolong the feeling of a single orgasm. Well not really but imagine walking around with your face contorted like your having an orgasm all the time: when you withdrawing money from the bank, where you are Church shouting those ejaculatory pronouncements of faith. You could never walk around a playground, everyone would think you were an undercover catholic priest.
Don’t take any wooden nickel
“You will remember this when all else fades, this moment, here, together, by this well. There will be certain days, and certain nights, you’ll feel my presence near you, hear my voice. You’ll think you have imagined it and yet, inside you, you will catch an answering cry. On April evenings, when the rain has ceased, your heart will shake, you’ll weep for nothing, pine for what’s not there. For you, this life will never be enough, there will forever be an emptiness, where once the god was all in all in you.”
― John Banville, The Infinities
The Cynicism has is at times quite caustic . You’ve been warned
This sacred tradition,… well it must be people stop everything they are doing on a Sunday to watch someone go up to a podium spout some nonsense and an occasional homophobic rant not to mention there is drinking involved and a tasteless flaccid host that no one really enjoys…. I could go on, …
But to get back to it, this sacred American tradition was started in Jan 1949 about 4 years after the end of WW2, during the Golden Age of Capitalism (give or take a few days/weeks/months) by The Los Angeles-based Academy of Television Arts & Sciences (ATAS). They established the Emmy Awards as part of an image-building and public relations opportunity.
Do you see that ? The Academy of Television arts and sciences wanted to find a way to build it’s image with the public so they created an award show honouring themselves really. I don’t mean to get off on a rant here, but this is the equivalent of publicly awarding myself for masturbating to a picture of myself masturbating, to increase people’s opinion of me and get them to think that I am so fucking special that every year I should let you in on this frenetic circle jerk, so you can tell others who were not so lucky to participate how awesome a job I did of public congratulating myself for essentially congratulating myself.
Actually I wont get off on a rant. I’m just going to flex the kegel muscles in my brain, suppress torrents of verbiage and not violently expectorate vitriolic generative juices all over this post, mostly because unlike the Emmy awards I have decency.
I know what you are saying: Who doesn’t like to receive an awards? And the answer is asexual people who abhor touching and any form of contact because as Rupaul says:
This is a great marketing ploy of course. It keeps the public attention off of the world around them and the simulacrum of reality you want them to mercilessly plug into like a young Ron Jeremy on the set of Super Hornio Brothers. I generates $$$ and interest it’s good for business.
The medal is of a winged woman holding an atom. Supposedly the wings symbolize the muse of the arts, while the atom symbolizes science, embodying the culmination of the art and the science of television.
Do you want me to tell you what it really means? A winged woman holding an atom represents public relations industry which uses data from scientific studies to reduce man to his most basic of drives and manipulate him into seeing things which he feels inspires him towards an action that just may redeem him of his mediocrity.
Maybe I’m overly cynical. Maybe I should just leave it alone that so many of the stereotypes and prejudices that create the hostile bigoted environment we live and work in are promoted and disseminated by television/movies on a daily basis.
Anyway I would have more to say but I am going to pleasure myself using tears as my only lubricant. You are all welcome to the award ceremony later honouring my contribution to a growing drain clog
Something precious was taken from me that night: about $50 dollars if memory serves me correctly. As an undergraduate student $50 was hard to come by. Depending on the cost of cereal that week $50 could be 2-3 weeks worth of lunches. But that is besides the point.
But seriously, what I lost that day when I entered that booth and stripped myself of my dignity in order to vote, was my ability to eat digest and process balderdash.
I don’t mean to get off on a fucking rant here but it’s not even an issue about using a fancier cup than those two women did (they are women now) anymore. I just cant eat the shit anymore. Let me back it upbefore you accuse me of coprophagia.
One of the core tenets of our democracy is that our elected officials represents our interests and lobby for our needs and benefits; but today I learned according to TIME Magazine that: “For the first time, more than half of congressional lawmakers are worth at least $1 million.” I wonder can a millionaire represent me? Can he fight for policies which go against the company who support his campaign? But that’s no fucking surprise right that the wealthy are in government setting policies for themselves and there morally bankrupt corporate associates. All the signers of the Declaration of Independence were wealthy. To give you an example(taken from Chomsky’s The U.S. behaves nothing like a democracy)
Now the rabble has been a pretty terrifying sight ever since. Actually it was long before. It remained so a century after the British democratic revolution. The founders of the American republic had pretty much the same view about the rabble. So they determined that “power must be in the hands of the wealth of the nation, the more responsible set of men. Those who have sympathy for property owners and their rights”, and of course for slave owners at the time. In general, men who understand that a fundamental task of government is “to protect the minority of the opulent from the majority”. Those are quotes from James Madison, the main framer – this was in the Constitutional Convention,So they [The founders of the American republic] determined that “power must be in the hands of the wealth of the nation, the more responsible set of men. Those who have sympathy for property owners and their rights”, and of course for slave owners at the time. In general, men who understand that a fundamental task of government is “to protect the minority of the opulent from the majority”.
The public has no idea what the government is doing for them, and to them. If not for Manning and Snowden, would we really know about the infringements on our rights? Furthermore the news media is doing its best to keep our attention away from the World going to hell around us. And somehow in the midst of all of this we have the stones to send soldiers to pave the way for democracy into countries we have no understanding of. Not to mention no concrete reason for having reduced their society to the motley assortment of dilapidated rubble-made dwelling we would expect to find in the Third Circle of a modern day retelling of the Inferno, where a continuous vile rain of lies, bombs and vapid depictions of the future, constantly assail the inhabitants.
Don’t get me wrong, as much as things are messed up, I still don’t mind living here. I love being a second-class citizen that can be shot or incarcerated at any time for no real reason at all. I just don’t want to continue on like I don’t see what’s going on in front of me because of some propaganda the illiterate schmucks next to me swallowed hook, line, and sinker.
I want to call a spade a spade. I want to be able to chuckle where I hear statements like:
Because I know they are bullshit, because she’s never in the mood. I digress. If I wanted to be lied to I would proposition the Octomom for sex and not look surprise when she guarantees that I will feel something, when I enter into the right shoulder of that that underpass she calls a vagina (It was amazingly able to rapid-fire 8 children unceremoniously into a dying planet.)
The election boils down to the Robert Frost poem: Fire and Ice:
I am optimistic about the future, but not so much about voting in the same way that I feel that I am above being enslaved by my sexual urges but still keep that $50 tucked away in my wallet. But we shall see, Im pretty sure I will vote again, but ultimately I still feel that: