Tuesday, June 01, 2004

Cry of the Great-Peckered Horndog

Well, for those of you who haven’t already used your 2004 Farmer’s Almanac to line your bird cage, it is now officially and undeniably Summer ~ at long last.

Despite the fact that ‘Mother “Boom Boom” Nature’ is about as predicable these days as Courtney Love on a 3-day weekend pass to the Jack Daniels distillery, it is time to once again think about shedding those extra pounds so that you’re sure to be able to wedge yourself into your flower-print short-short’s and tight cut-off product ad booby shirts in the coming nice weather. It is this time of the year, when the in-the-closet members of the ‘Penny Candy Cartel’ attempt to conceal the fact that they have gained a few extra pounds over the winter, and hastily throw themselves into an ill-planned and even more poorly executed health regiment, in the effort to shape their abs, slim their waistlines, and mould an ass that they could crack walnuts on. The flames of this ‘Spring Slim-Fast Instinct’ are only fanned higher by the steady influx of Weight-loss Adverts on our televisions and radios, which would have us all believe that we all had flabby deformed bodies that could potentially rival the love child from the ungodly union between Ron Jeremy and Rosie O’Donnell.

Now, understanding that nobody would really enjoy the all-natural grit and flavor of ‘U-Brew Yogurt’, why else would you suddenly get the urge to change your lifestyle and better your health, as opposed to the rest of the year? It’s not “to feel good about yourself” like the Ester Lauder fashion models will have you believe in the commercials. You think Ester Lauder gives a flying ‘To-furkey’ fuck about what you look like, just as long as you buy their new line of ‘Brazilian Bumblebee Shit’ Cosmetics ~ collected and handcrafted in the Brazilian Rainforest, by the skilled local artisans at ‘Our Lady of Slave Labor Elementary School’? If we lived to feel good about ourselves, we’d all be at home, “on hiatus”, writing sappy songs about unrequited love in our underwear while Survivor played on our large screen T.V.'s, and surviving on a strict diet of pudding. But no, we put ourselves through the agony of slimming down and buffing up this time of year, because like all other forms of species on this planet come springtime ~ you’re HORNY, that’s why! As soon as the clock strikes 12:01 AM on the morning of March 21st, the Spring Equinox, every living creature alive develops that indescribable urge to max out their credit cards in membership fees at the local gym, dust off their video copies of ‘Sweatin’ to the Oldies; Vol.1004’, and tap dance in a public fountain while singing ‘Zip-A-Dee Doo-Dah’ at the tops of their lungs. And why? So that they can slip into their micro-mini skirts and low-cut halter tops, and openly and heartlessly taunt the repressed and frustrated members of the opposite sex hanging around under the neon sign in the parking lot of ‘Lenny’s Chewing Tobacco Emporium’. At least, that’s the way I see it at the moment. But of course, I am a little biased.

You’ll have to excuse my biting sarcasm, as it’s not my intention to come off as completely bitter and slighted towards couples in love during this summer season ~ but, I am again SINGLE and therefore CYNICAL at the moment. In fact, I have to repress the urge to prevent myself from clubbing teenagers dry-humping at public malls like mating wildebeast with big sticks. It’s just that damn season again where us poor single schleps feel that ridiculous necessity to put on the ‘Dance of Many Bulges’ in the streets and in the clubs, in the pathetic attempt to lure back a prospective mate to share lonely one-bedroom apartments with, and to help make a nest out of pizza boxes and dust bunnies ~ at the very least, for a drunken hand-job in the alley behind the local Motel-6. At times, it seems to me that everyone within a mile radius, is either locking loins, slobbering over one another at the bus stop, dry-humping outside the Mini-Marts, or spread-eagling themselves on the hoods of expensive Italian sports cars.

Luckily, this is the new ‘Age of Technology’ and there is no need to go to bed unsatisfied, even if you struck out. Gone are the days where you’d pass out with your memories of sneaked peaks of the forbidden delights on the Head Cheerleader as she slipped from the ‘Female Tower of Flesh’ during the half-time routine at ‘The Frito Bowl’ in High School. Now with the marvel of technology, you can simply go home and superimpose the Head Cheerleader’s face on a illicitly posed photograph of your favorite porn star pulled fresh off the Internet, and repeatedly wack-off as if you were expunging the equivalent of a deep-fried Mars Bar in pure calories with each deliciously battered orgasm.

But honestly, I am a romantic at heart. The mere idea of shutting myself in on a Friday night to pleasure myself while reviewing the cinematic achievements of ‘The Butcher, The Baker, and The Double-Headed Dildo Maker’ from my local ‘Porn-R-Us’ adult video store chain, is about as enticing as having to resuscitate Hannibal Lecter after he collapses from gas pains while guest appearing on an episode of the ‘Iron Chef’. I would be lying however, if I said that the whole phenomenon of the Adult Industry (or the incredible Triple-A Cup chest-size of ‘Juicy Lucy’ in the endearing and much anticipated sequel to ‘Edward Penis-Hands’) doesn’t fascinate me. I mean, what EXACTLY do you DO with a ‘Crystal-Ribbed Jelly Dong’ abyways? The riddle itself is as perplexing as the formula for cold-water fusion! Unfortunately, I don’t have much faith in my chances at lucking into delivering a pizza to 3 sex-starved buxom blond Co-ed’s in the middle of their lingerie laundry cycle anytime soon ~ so, what now? With half the public contorting themselves into passion pretzels on park blankets and benches, and the other half at home beating off like it could save world hunger from behind their half-drawn window shades; where has the singles seen gone all of a sudden?

Lately I feel as about as secure as I did when I first made the mistake of naively asking my Pharmacist when he was expecting his next shipment of size ‘Small’ condoms. I’ve used all the old tried and true methods of wooing the babes like cruising the downtown in the afternoon with the windows down, or that old favorite pick-up standard: the “Oops, Did My Frisbee Just Land In Your Guacamole?” routine. But for some reason, the chicks just don’t seem to dig me cruising around in my turd-colored, war-torn Chevrolet Tornado battleship with ‘Gordon Lightfoot: Live from Moosejaw’ blasting through the rolled-down newspaper windows like they used to. Perhaps my entire game plan needs to be revamped to ensure maximum chemistry with today’s modern honey (‘chemistry’ ~ like simple household chloroform compounds that is).

But honestly, supposing I do manage to somehow snare my perfect randy philly, fresh from the frontline fighting in the trenches of the ‘Kailua Fields’ ~ what THEN? Does the fact that I am not up and well versed in the ancient arts of the ‘Portland Piledriver’, the ‘Oriental Lotus Leaf’, or the ‘Tibetan Double-Donkey’ positions from the latest Vivid Video releases mean that I am an inferior lover, and therefore ill-equipped to handle even the most unceremonious and liquored up of the desperate bar-stool nympho’s? Hopefully NOT! I will be the first to agree, I am no ‘Lord Hugh Mungous’, and my bedroom tactics may not exactly set the drapes on fire ~ but damn it, I have needs too! I have not abandoned the search for ‘Ms Right’ altogether, but I can’t help it that ‘Ms Right Now’ is presently obstructing my view by performing a greased pole dance in a red vinyl fuck-me dress, now can I?! See what I mean?

I maintain the faith that someday my celibacy and my chivalry will not go unrewarded. And until that time when I do find my immortal beloved ‘Partner In Passion Sweat’, I am going to stay well clear of the rutting hordes of love gone wild, rent as many volumes of Snoop Dogg's 'Girls Gone Wild' videos as I can find, and pray for winter.


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