One Hell of a Punchline

Alright, the time has come for that important and magical moment that comes on everyone's life: the sex talk.

Although the often-quoted fact that men think about sex every five seconds may be false, I'll go out on a limb and say that I prove the statistic. As of late however, I have been more preoccupied with it than usual, and it has gone beyond the usual, "I'd hit that!" moments.

I am reminded of the scene in Dogma when the Metatron is explaining how things work in heaven and comments how sex is one of the biggest jokes in heaven. I cannot help but stand in awe of the absurdly profound truth in that statement. Sex is quite possibly the funniest thing that exists in the human condition for two primary reasons: 1. It's unparalleled universality and 2. its utter absurdity.

Everybody is thinking about sex. I don't mean all of that psychology tripe about phallic skyscrapers, and the significance of the cockpit in airplanes; I'm talking about bumpin' uglies. Straight up. Kids get that book Everybody Poops when they're ready to be toilet trained. Well, once those kids get a little older, they should get another book: Everybody Fucks. That's right, Johnny; everybody does the nasty. Americans and Canadians and Russians and Chinese and Kenyans. Not even the Olympics can bring about this kind of international unity. Mommies do it and Daddies do it; in fact, Mommy and Daddy are probably going to do it once I finish reading to you and put you to bed. Make sure you knock first if you get scared during the night.

And yet, despite its universality, sex is also one of the most diverse acts imaginable. You can do just about anything and call it sex as long as it gets your rocks off in the end. Whips and leather do it for some, other like a little role-playing, some guys can't even get it up unless they are being gang-raped by three dwarves dressed as Disney characters while a Scandanavian female body builder is hitting him in the scrotum with a cricket bat (go to bed with that one in your mind). Some view sex as primarily a biological function reserved for procreation. Others *cough feminazis cough* reject this in favor of a purely societal construct. They cry, "Women are degraded by being forced to lie on their backs and simply receive the oppressive male seed!" That's how the vagina is designed, toots. The only other way to get seminal fluid to the cervix is to do a handstand, and that just isn't a very sexy pose (unless you're one of the aforementioned fellows who might enjoy that sort of thing). Hell, people don't even need complementary genetalia to get down. I won't even touch that kettle of fish, though. Even the people who reject sex completely and take vows of celibacy are thinking about sex, or at least about not having sex.

If heaven exists, God and the multitude of the heavenly host are pissing themselves laughing.

The Truth Isn't Out There...But It Should Be

There was a news story during the last week or so that grabbed my attention like no other. No, it wasn't all of the Olympics hooplah, although I have been passionately following that (and not just for volleyball super-fox Kerri Walsh). It was three little words that appeared on one of my bored-time websites: "Bigfoot Corpse Found." Two bigfoot hunters in Georgia claimed to have bagged an honest-to-God sasquatch and were going to present their findings at a press conference the following day.

I knew it wasn't true. It couldn't be. I'm a rational person, plus I'm from the Show Me State, so I'm really in the camp of "incredible claims require incredible evidence". Every synapse I had
was firing "Bullshit!" when I heard about a frozen bigfoot being kept in a freezer. And yet, deep down in my heart of hearts, I wanted it to be true.

In fifth grade, I was obsessed with the Loch Ness Monster. I read every book about Nessie that I could get my nervous hands onto. I knew the history, the pictures, and more personal accounts than I care to admit. I wanted to go to Iverness, Scotland so badly just for the opportunity to waste a day sitting next to an ice cold lake filled with moss in the ever-present chance that the fabled kelpie would rise from the waves and grant me a personal candid interview. I've since outgrown Nessie and the likelihood of its exsistence. However, I still get pissed off when people film segments oon the Loch Ness Monster and show the infamous Surgeon's Photo as photographic proof that it is real. That picture is an admitted fake! Do some damn research! But I digress...

So, back to the latter-day Harry and the Hendersons. Deep down, that little kid inside of me perked up at the chance of bigfoot proof. I was never a big fan of the 'Foot; it always just seemed to easy to fake to me. As it turns out, my juvenile intuition proved to be all to true. The corpse was little more than a gorilla costume crammed into a freezer and the two cats who "found" it haven't been seen since. My only conclusion is that a real Bigfoot caught wind of what they were doing and called up his buddy:

"Hey, Frank. It's Marty."

"Hey, Marty, what's up, bra?"

"Have you seen this shit on the news? Two punks in Georgia claim that they caught one of us."

"Really? Alive or dead?"

"Dead, of course."

"No shit, I got a cousin that lives down there."

"Yeah well, don't bother calling him to find out if he's ok, because it's just some cocky motherfuckers trying to make a quick buck by stuffing a gorilla costume in a freezer. I'm getting so tired of this crap. They can't even get the appearance right. I don't look like a gorilla. They look more like gorillas than I do. I think I'm finally gonna do something about. I'm gonna track these sumbitches down and stuff their asses in a freezer and hold a press conference claiming to the bigfoot community that I have successfully captured the Great North American Douchebag. The difference? My corpses will be real."

"Well...you have fun with that, Marty. I'll talk to you later."

"Later, man."

(hangs up)

A man has to dream, doesn't he?

The Bitch is Back (So to Speak)

After a long and I'm sure depressing wait, my highly anticipated return has finally arrived. Huzzah. The summer was all too short, but also more fulfilling than I could have imagined. I'm sure that eventually I'll get around to discussing it a bit...but not now.

Instead, I'll regail my readers with a personal anecdote:

I fixed a toilet today. For months now, it had been plagued with a rather serious water hammer (look it up), and I finally got around to fixing it. Normally I reserve such deeds for my more mechanically inclined brother, but I was getting really tired of not being able to use my own toilet. It's the little luxeries in life that truly make it precious. To not even possess a choice in regards to crapping feels alarmingly restrictive. Every time I shat I felt like I was in Soviet Russia. So eventually, enough became too much and I resolved to fix the damn thing myself; so I did. I replaced the entire ballcock (my word of the month by the way) and now it works fine.

In the grand scheme of things, it's not a big deal to fix a toilet. Mechanically speaking, it's not exactly on par with trying to readjust the Hubble telescope; a simple device for a simple act I suppose. The point is that I fixed it. I did. Totally by myself. there is a real sense of satisfaction in that, especially since I do not fit the archetypal role of Handyman. I really enjoyed the feeling of satisfaction from the act.

Where does the root of happiness lie? For me, it lies in the terlit.

Glad to be back, America!

Next time: What has fur, big feet, and breaks my heart?