Saturday, October 18, 2008

The World Powered by Fishbulb Energy

If I have ascertained anything from cinema, it is that people in the ‘80s often peered into a mirror, put on a pair of wayfarer sunglasses and snapped their fingers at about eye-level. This mating ritual for teens and young adults— a rite of passage, of sorts— often directly prefaced a premeditated rendezvous with a female. At times, this act may transpire amidst a montage of cool behavior which may or may not reach an abrupt end when the subject’s mother and/or girl over whom he is fawning impede on his privacy while he is playing air guitar in his skivvies. It should also be noted that, during this byzantine decade, it was quite commonplace for a rich father to pull aside his daughter’s middle-class boyfriend, whip out his checkbook and inquire as to how much it would cost to leave his daughter alone, to which the ragamuffin would usually profess his unabashed love and affection for her before peeling away in his Trans Am. High school parties generally consisted of students from every social circle and grade level. Even lycanthropes capable of shapeshifting into wolf-like creatures were tolerated given they car-surf on the roofs of vans and have a wicked jumpshot.

I have learned from— or been influenced by— such outlets significantly throughout the years. I have suckled at the teat of the one-eyed electrical matriarch in the age of mass media overstimulation and it has molded my interpretation of reality. I possess no genuine beliefs, nor am I capable of formulating any unique thoughts or ideas. Instead, I recite hackneyed lines from movies and reference television shows to amuse others. Even commercials are incorporated into my daily discourse. You know me. Yes, you do. I’m that guy at work who quotes Family Guy all day. Still doesn’t ring a bell? Maybe I should talk like Borat, would that help? I am the culmination of all social and cultural stimuli that has preceded me; the product of packaged simulacra sold as a commodity in a Baudrillardian dystopia where all are compared on an insubstantial basis. I am considerably less than the sum of my parts.

So when you arrive home from work ahead of schedule with a bouquet of pastel roses, lilies, carnations and daisy poms for your wife, whom you expect to be worn ragged from dusting the dining room table and cleaning baby vomit from whatever the baby vomits on, and you find the old ball and chain diddling her love button to the image of a greased up Latino gentleman with a horsecock on the computer screen, it is quite difficult for the brain to process. Primetime dramas have partially prepared me for the possibility of catching the wife in bed with the poolboy, but not pleasuring herself to ethnic internet porn most likely marketed toward homosexual men. I stretch my waistband and take a gander at the mushroom in a patch of grass hiding beneath my trousers. How often has she pictured Enrique Iglesias while I played with her nipples? How many times has she finished herself off with a black dildo in the bathroom after we engaged in intercourse? I bet if I opened the cistern there would be some rubber dong modeled after Andre Rison’s penis floating in there. My friend once told me that Andre Rison had to tape his genitals to his leg while playing football because his junk was so big. He was probably full of shit.

What the fuck would Jack Bauer do in this situation?

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