I was reading some stories in one of my former journalistic sojourns – USA TODAY — the other day about all these eight, nine and 10 year-old little girls in Idaho, China, Peru, Romania, and most any port in the storm, giving birth to babies. One young grandmother of the post-partum-younger-little-mama said 10 years old is not considered young in Romania.
Obviously I gotta start reaching for my bourbon long before I even get to spiking my early morning java.
I mean in the same paper we’ve got stories about a 7-year-old girl being prostituted out by her stepsister and gang raped by a group of – no doubt — future politicians and lawyers in New Jersey. We’ve got Italy’s version of our Bill Clinton in Prime Minister Berlusconi not only saying that it is better to be passionate about a beautiful girl than be gay, but, even at 74, his beautiful girls have been — more than rumored — to be 17…16…15…14….
Man, when I discovered the wee age some of our early monarchs had been slam dunkin’ their cherubic queen bees –like Queen Isabella of France who was either 10, 11 or 12 when she was married off, with Papal dispensation (But, of course!) — I realized why much of the inbred off-spring of the inter-family Olde-World-and-much-older world monarchies eventually started tap-dancing and whistling to music no one else could hear. It’s like their mental rugs had been beaten so clean and vacuumed so sterile there was nothing left to hold their ears apart.
Look, we’re all nuts. Always been nuts. Always will be nuts. In fact, even when we’re all dressed up we ain’t got no place to go: Because we’ve already gone nuts. Been there. Done that.
We really can’t help it. No matter how you try to phrase it. Poor people are called crazy. And those of us – even if we aren’t nearly as house rich as we thought we were before ‘W’ Bush, Dick & Company tanked the world economy — are considered, euphemistically, eccentric.
But I don’t know if Adam and Eve were either crazy or eccentric, rich or poor. Perhaps they were just drawn that way. And so here we are, all products of their incest, believe it or not, with their own young children.
And that’s how we’ve ended up with all those crazies in Washington who are about to shut down the government. That’s how we keep getting those eccentric guys on Wall Street selling us derivatives by the nom de jour of other Ponzi scams. That’s how we got that unelected muscle-headed President of the Ivory Coast refusing to be democratic. That’s how we got that demented Gadhafi and the rest of the mentally-dessicated Mideast mullahs beating their own women. And of course, that’s how we got all those priests sexually beating and sticking it down their own men.
So, pull-ease! Put a sign on the front door. Remind those really crazy self-deluders who insist on declaring they ain’t nuts, that they are entering The Asylum. All ye who enter here leave hope at the door.
And when it comes to sex, just refer to the scream in the paragraph above. We are all the product of the same Sexually Transmitted Disease.
Man ain’t got no common sense from the post-circumcision age of 13 until a Viagra 4-hour hard-attack at 75. Can’t help himself. Five million years of DNA designer genes. Even if he goes off like a Buddhist monk and roams the prairies and deserts and mountain ranges he is going to do things with sheep and goats and buffaloes. And, like that guy in South Carolina a year or so back, even with horses.
And women are just as puerile. They may not be malicious. (Strike that. They are.) But they are far from naïve. Those beauties adorn their bumps and curves in those tube tops and spandex skirts with long bumper sweaters pouring over their fine-behinds, and march around on those Stiletto high FMPs.
Man’s got a better chance of surviving a nuclear meltdown.
I am trying to intellectualize all this. I really am. But how bright can a man be when his winkie operates like the weather: totally independent of what’s going on with the rest of the planet. And political correctness only exacerbates the torture. In truth, a woman wants a man to be more of a man; and a man wants a woman to be all woman.
Otherwise we are drifting in the miserable sea of the absurd role confusion. In countries where I have lived and worked I know of groups of men, each a confederacy of dunces, who engage in raping a woman. Then they turn her into the local tribunal where she is incarcerated for adultery.
Like I said, we are all insane on the Planet Earth.
Recently I was in a tavern, having a bourbon, which I hoped would act as a solvent to scrub away some psycho drama. An attractive, fit woman, a struggling writer by night, engaged me in desultory conversation. I didn’t need to be a brain surgeon to see that her brain had been washed away by a tsunami of whatever she had been consuming in mass quantities.
When she stood up she listed both port and starboard as oxygen flooded like incoming napalm. Finally, in a slurred language that almost needed subtitles, she asked if I would help walk her home.
It was quite an aerobic exercise meandering to her front door and finding the right key.
Then she asked if me, and the imaginary friends she seemed to see beside me, if we wanted to come in.
Before I continue, I must note that when I was relating this anecdote recently to some dowdy looking folks, who must have been members of their church sewing club, one of them needed to know why I was in a bar in the first place.
I gazed at her as a thousand bawdy replies stormed through my rolodex of retorts. And what I finally offered is: men go to bars for the same reason that women go to bars — they are looking for a deeply, meaningful overnight relationship.
So, when the drunken woman asked me in, believe it or not, I declined. In words that must have sounded like a peculiar guy who doesn’t understand that any sex is good, I said something to the effect that I required, like the laws of physics, equal and opposite reactions in my naked exercises. That is, more than just handcuffs and blindfolds.
Maybe it’s just me. Or, maybe I gotta drink all the bourbon in Bard County, Kentucky. But I never could fathom even the concept of rape. Or, for that matter, sex with a girl 8 or 9 years old. Or sex with a woman too drunk to know if it was me or her husband.
But, admittedly, I did have a thing for Lassie.
It’s just the way we are. Always been. No doubt, always will. Sex is merely emotion in motion. And obviously we’ve got a lot of emotionally disturbed folks looking to pitch their tents in locomotion. We’ve merely transitioned from apes who were naked, to apes that pay $5,000 to show off ourselves with a piece of cloth that boasts Gucci. Yet, beneath the show, we ain’t nuttin’ but the same-old-same-old cheap birthday suit.
Like I already said: We’re all nuts. We’re all insane. We’re all crazy… Just not me. I’m just eccentric.
But no matter. For the only good thing is: We’re all going to get what’s coming.
And dats yDrewIS on DIS penal colony.