Dangerspouse Rides Again

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Garage - Track

Aug. 23, 2005 - 7:10 a.m.

It's a Girl Eat Girl World


Ah, lesbians. Real and imagined, I love you all.

I know, I know: "What is with you guys and your fascination with vagitarians, anyway? I just don't get it."

Shut up, bitch.

Here, lemme take a moment to enlighten you.

And I once owned a psychology textbook, so yes, I'm qualified.


1. All men love porn. Even priests. (Especially priests, if Alter Boys are to be believed.)

2. All men hate every penis in the world except their own. (Except fags of course, but they don't figure into this argument.)

3. All women lack penises, even the ones who delude themselves with expensive hydraulic strap-ons that squirt and have tiny embedded brains like the real thing.

The conflict between #1 and #2 poses a real problem. All real men want to watch porn, being the visual creatures we're constantly being told we are. But unless we're watching ourself on screen, we are forced to gaze on foreign penises. And that makes us recoil inwardly, no matter how we try to mask it with raging hard-ons. Don't be fooled, ladies. (I love that phrase, "raging hard-on". Makes it sound like my penis - which leans to the left like the rest of me - is harranguing President Bush through a bullhorn about the evils of...well, of President Bush. Rage on, Little Evis!)

Therefore, all Real Men look to #3 for relief. While watching lesbians we get all the benefits of seeing various orifies (with pristine coiffure, btw. A word to the wise, ladies) without any of the social or mental drawbacks associated with drooling over another man's (usually larger) unit.

This goes for personal fantasies too, in case you were curious. Should, god forbid, we be stranded somewhere where there is no porn (Aisle 13 of the Franklin NJ Wal-Mart, to cite a recent personal example) and absolutely have to yank it ad lib, then the visions we conjure up are either of us making Ms. Jameson gasp in shock, or...lesbians.

(This is in marked contrast to how babes fantasize, at least according to a "Psych of Human Sexuality" course I once took back at Halcyon U. The prof, and the textbook which she'd authored, both insisted that the NUMBER ONE sexual fantasy for women when they play 'Fumble Under the Sheets' is a rape fantasy. However, it does not involve the fantasizer herself being raped. No, the excitement comes (so to speak) from watching another woman being humiliated and violated. More or less the grown up version of cheerleader tryouts.
Many of my classmates espressed skepticism at this tenet, but having seen firsthand the unbridled glee my 4 sisters took as they engaged in almost unfathomable girl-on-girl psychological torture all through high school, I could easily see where they would secretly desire it crossing over to physical torture.)

So there, in a nut shell, is what's up with men and the lesbians they love. It's all about the penis.

NewWifey(tm) understands this completely, by the way, and always makes sure that any porn she buys me has at least one good g-g scene. And what a wife! She doesn't even leave the room when we're watching together and one of "those" scenes comes on. If anything, she watches even more intently at those points. She has very high standards when it comes to the prurient entertainment she gifts me with, and wants to make damn sure that each video lives up to it.

Meanwhile, on a very related note, have I mentioned how much I love working where I do?

I may be a small (albeit highly talented) cog in a vast, soulless media empire, waking at 1:30am 6 days a week to drive 50 miles each way along winding, bear infested mountain roads, all for an embarassingly inflated paycheck and undeserved social status. But despite that, I go through every day with a song in my heart and a lump in my pants.



Not REAL lesbians mind you. These are perceived lesbians.

And that's just as good as far as Real Mens' brains are concerned.

See, aside from serving as a radio service outlet to over 150 NY metropolitan stations, we also have several TV stations subscribing to our services. So we have 5 or 6 television studios out of which are broadcast traffic, weather, fluff, and soft core porn (on the Hispanic stations) to most of the largest network stations on the East Coast.

And do you know who the largest network TV stations on the East Coast want on their airwaves?

The hottest fucking babes in the universe, that's who.

Don't let anyone tell you different kids. That old canard is one of the most true of all truisms: the media really IS the message. You could prop up a corpse in the chair on set, and as long as the corpse sports a 36-23-35 frame with coyly casual cleavage you'll garner at least a 30 share. Let's face it, 18-34 males (the target demographic) sees submissively silent eye candy as their second most cherished fantasy. One which is never, ever realized in real life.

As a result, all day long here at Soulless Media Conglomerate Inc. there is a never ending parade of museum quality blonds, gleaming ebony goddesses, porcelain skinned redheads, daintily bound-footed Asians, and everybody around here's favorite: smokin' hot, clad only in 2 push-up beer caps and a translucent triangle of cellophane, shakin' everything they've got all the time, barely conversant in English...Hispanic chicks!


God do we love the Hispanic chicks here.

Have you ever stumbled across any of the programming on Univision or Telemundo? Every show that airs, even the news, even the news on 9/11, looks like an MTV Beach Party. With less clothes. And no guys. We have every monitor tuned to the Spanish stations at work during the overnight hours. It's the only thing that keeps us up sometimes. So to speak.

At 5am though, the LIVE programming starts. That's when the troupe of 4 radio and 3 TV Latinas arrives, wearing 8 square centimeters of cloth between them.

The best thing, as if anything could top a gaggle of giggling, jiggling, Carmen Electra clones, is...they love each other! I can't tell you how many times I've rounded a corner on my way to the kitchen only to see Maria Carmen de Jesus Colon Banana y Perez de la Bonita Chaquita greeting Carmen Maria de Colon Bonita y Jesus Chiquita Perez with a lingering nip-to-nip hug, intertwined fingers, and swaying-on-4-inch-stilettos hip grind. The two day old McBurrito in my fist rarely makes it to the microwave because my forearm spasms cause it to explode like one of Gallagher's watermelons. I'm sure my heart is gonna do the same one of these days too, if I'm not carefull.

I really think that we should have defibrilators stationed along every wall of our company. God bless that hot blooded culture and its insistance on bucking their WASP overlords' Puritanical values by actually celebrating the Woman As Sex Object ethos. Fight da Man, ladies! We'll be behind you 100%! Watching.

Gosh, there was so much more I wanted to say. I know this is kind of a Shaggy Dog entry, with no real plot or punch line. But work's over, and I really have to get to the elevator and pretend to be having a cell phone conversation when the 4 radio and 3 TV Latina reporters gather there to say their goodbyes.

I've gotta get a camera phone. I'd make a fortune.....





Er...yeah. I know I told a whole gaggle of jiggling e-mailers that I wasn't gonna be updating anymore.

I lied.

Blame the lesbians.

(Still, I'm not sure how many more will be coming after this. Don't blame the lesbians for that, though.)

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