Things I Think About After Sex

December 15, 2016 5:06 amComments Off on Things I Think About After SexViews: 90

What is it with evil guys and those white cats? When I become an Evil Madman, am I required to send away for a snow-white Persian and a studded diamond collar? Will my black-on-black Evil Madman double-breasted suits be covered in white hair? And if so, do I want that? I mean, is the white cat a requirement for your Evil Madman license, or is it stress reduction necessary for the busy Evil Genius on the Go?

We’ve all consumed “processed cheese food” before, I’m willing to bet. Processed cheese food represents a concept in marketing that I believe should be carried into other areas of daily life. It’s absolutely correct to say that these individually-wrapped, cheese-flavored slices of some gelatinous substance that is almost, but not quite cheese, cannot then accurately be marketed as “cheese.” Thus, it is “processed cheese food.” Vaguely cheese-like substance. A reasonable facsimile of the product after which it is patterned.

I bought a pad of note paper squares the other day. This seemed like a simple enough idea. We were running out of note paper squares, so I bought a package labeled “note paper squares” believing it to be a suitable replacement.

What I received were square slips of 1-micron-thin “paper,” suitable only for flimsy bookmarks or wiping the noses of delicate, cherubic infants.

Searching for a pen whose tip was soft enough and thick enough to avoid piercing, at the molecular level, an individual scrap of pressed wood fiber product, I couldn’t help but agree.

I watched a VH1 movie the other day called Strange Frequency. It was a collection of half-hour episodes, all of which were styled after The Twilight Zone or The Outer Limits, but with a focus on music. I particularly enjoyed one in which fans of rock and heavy metal (who have behaved poorly in life) go to Disco Hell, where they must boogie-oogie-oogie for eternity. Watch your steps, metal fans — it doesn’t seem to take much to go there.

“How many times did you take the Lord’s name in vain?” Satan asks one condemned metal head.

“That’s a weak-ass rule,” he retorts bitterly.

I’ve noticed that cheerleading seems to have changed. Not that I’ve ever been an expert, mind you. But I seem to remember cheerleading as being a relatively wholesome affair, one in a high school’s Popular Girls wore sweaters and pleated skirts and chanted silly slogans.

What all of these items had in common was the new approach to cheerleading that disturbs me so. Instead of the varsity-lettered-sweater wearing cheerleading I remember, cheerleading today is an exercise in exotic dancing. Bare stomachs are the rule, as are frenzied acts of simulated copulation that would send a Maxim covergirl running for the nearest confessional. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not repressed, or anything. Yet I can’t help but think that your average cinematic cheerleading competition could give a live Amsterdam sex show a run for its money.

As a college student, I used to marvel at the fruit cellar my parents kept stocked with vintage liquor. Many of the bottles had been opened, and perhaps a glass or two of liquid had been extracted from each of these. Still more were unopened and dusty. As an alcohol-enthusiastic college kid, I used to think: “How could they just let this sit here?” Now I know.

For I, too, have started accumulating that fruit cellar. I have started small. My future fruit cellar full of liquor is only a kitchen cupboard. It sits next to my resume coffee mug cupboard and is full of unopened bottles of liquor, most of these given as holiday gifts. At times I supplement the cupboard with things that seem like a good idea when I purchase them. I had a bottle of Jack Daniels that lasted longer than three leases at my first apartment. The last six-pack of wine coolers I purchased sat in my refrigerator for so long that the labels peeled off by themselves.

My future children will stare at my closet full of unopened bottles of liquor, and wonder why I let it sit there. I will say nothing. Sometimes I will think about drinking some of it, and I will realize I don’t feel like it. I will tell myself I have to go to work in the morning, anyway.

And every Friday I will realize I can buy all the candy and toys I want, but I won’t buy them, because that’s being a grownup.

Bad television is a very painful thing. The humanitarian in me would like to go back in time and improve old reality shows like Big Brother, Season 2 of which  featured a crazed resident with a New Jersey accent holding a kitchen knife to a drunken fellow player’s throat in some sort of bizarre Angelina Jolie-style foreplay. It also saw one of the contestants — a skinny whore named Shannon — clean the toilet with a fellow housemate’s battery-powered toothbrush, and featured many mind-numbing rapping sessions from a white LA resident named Mike (who, mercifully, was voted out).

What is it about summer that makes people with similar cars want to park them near each other?  Not once have I felt the urge to seek out other owners of Pontiac Grand Ams in order to share the camaraderie one supposes is required of parking near owners of similar vehicles.  Even if I had a really cool car, I don’t think I would get it.  I mean, if a guy in a Trans Am cuts you off in traffic, he’s still a jerk, and you’re still going to be waving a particular digit at him — even if you’re driving a Trans Am too.  Do I really want to go out of my way to hang out with these people?  All other drivers are basically my enemies, the way I see it.  I don’t know as I want to give them a chance to memorize my license plate while I stand around waiting for a tire iron to the head from the guy I wouldn’t let merge in front of me yesterday.

Maybe I should just go back to sleep.