Do you hate Celine Dion as much as I do?
I was reading a blog entry today by a comic book artist, about when he and his girlfriend (also a comic book artist) met a more famous comic book writer at a convention.
Sounds like a great opportunity, right?
Except that the famous comic book writer decided he wanted to get with the less famous comic book artist's girlfriend. So she promptly threw the less famous artist out like yesterday's coffee grounds, to get with the more famous guy.
Why did she do this?
Why does a dog lick his balls?
Because he can.
I believe that beautiful women have little or no ability to love anyone other than themselves. Why? Because they don't have to. My friend Joe Willy blames construction workers and the stereotypical hooting they unleash whenever a woman walks by. But it's really all men.
I have long held that any woman can walk into any bar on any night, and be 100 percent assured of leaving with a man. The same cannot be said for a man. Why? Because not every woman in a bar is looking to get laid. Every man is.
So, women develop the attitude that they can always be shopping for the next best thing, like a monkey jumping from tree to tree, always hoping to land in the biggest tree with the most bananas. And beautiful women think you should put up with whatever psycho shit they exhibit, because if you don't, there's a line of men at the door, behind the velvet rope, waiting for bouncer to wave them in, as if her vagina was Studio 54.
But, are they looking for the next guy to be kinder, gentler, and more understanding than the last?
Nope. As indicated by the artist's girlfriend, she was only interested in what the writer was, not who he was.
For a more extreme example, take Anna Nicole Smith. As my always-ready-with-a-great-line friend Joe Willy said, "One must assume that at least once, she had sex with that 90-year-old liver spot." What could such a beautiful young woman see in such a decrepit old man?
$$$$$$$$
What he was, rather than who he was.
Which brings me to Titanic. I have often (well, maybe not often, but once in a while) wondered why girls loved this romantic tale so much that they would see it a dozen or more times? After all, the guy she loves dies in the end.
And then it struck me: Girls loved it because the guy she loves dies in the end.
It's the perfect love story: Beautiful young woman of privilege meets rough-around-the-edges Irish guy, has wild, passionate sex in the back seat of a car, and then can say good-bye with no regrets (because he's DEAD!) before she has to move past the cardboard cutout image she has of him, and has to face who he really is: an uneducated loser. A loser who, upon reaching the USA will be disappointed in the promised land when he's forced to take some menial job digging coal or shoveling shit to support his family, begins to drink too much, gets fat and bald, and then dies by middle age of heart disease and a body broken by too much physical labor.
Instead, she can jump to the next tree, and move on with fond memories, and no regrets.
Too bad all those movie watchers' real boyfriends can't just die when they decide it's time to brachiate* to the next tree.
*Credit where credit is due: My friend Joe Willy supplied the word "brachiate," so I thought I should give him credit, as he is truly my Richie Sambora.
Sounds like a great opportunity, right?
Except that the famous comic book writer decided he wanted to get with the less famous comic book artist's girlfriend. So she promptly threw the less famous artist out like yesterday's coffee grounds, to get with the more famous guy.
Why did she do this?
Why does a dog lick his balls?
Because he can.
I believe that beautiful women have little or no ability to love anyone other than themselves. Why? Because they don't have to. My friend Joe Willy blames construction workers and the stereotypical hooting they unleash whenever a woman walks by. But it's really all men.
I have long held that any woman can walk into any bar on any night, and be 100 percent assured of leaving with a man. The same cannot be said for a man. Why? Because not every woman in a bar is looking to get laid. Every man is.
So, women develop the attitude that they can always be shopping for the next best thing, like a monkey jumping from tree to tree, always hoping to land in the biggest tree with the most bananas. And beautiful women think you should put up with whatever psycho shit they exhibit, because if you don't, there's a line of men at the door, behind the velvet rope, waiting for bouncer to wave them in, as if her vagina was Studio 54.
But, are they looking for the next guy to be kinder, gentler, and more understanding than the last?
Nope. As indicated by the artist's girlfriend, she was only interested in what the writer was, not who he was.
For a more extreme example, take Anna Nicole Smith. As my always-ready-with-a-great-line friend Joe Willy said, "One must assume that at least once, she had sex with that 90-year-old liver spot." What could such a beautiful young woman see in such a decrepit old man?
$$$$$$$$
What he was, rather than who he was.
Which brings me to Titanic. I have often (well, maybe not often, but once in a while) wondered why girls loved this romantic tale so much that they would see it a dozen or more times? After all, the guy she loves dies in the end.
And then it struck me: Girls loved it because the guy she loves dies in the end.
It's the perfect love story: Beautiful young woman of privilege meets rough-around-the-edges Irish guy, has wild, passionate sex in the back seat of a car, and then can say good-bye with no regrets (because he's DEAD!) before she has to move past the cardboard cutout image she has of him, and has to face who he really is: an uneducated loser. A loser who, upon reaching the USA will be disappointed in the promised land when he's forced to take some menial job digging coal or shoveling shit to support his family, begins to drink too much, gets fat and bald, and then dies by middle age of heart disease and a body broken by too much physical labor.
Instead, she can jump to the next tree, and move on with fond memories, and no regrets.
Too bad all those movie watchers' real boyfriends can't just die when they decide it's time to brachiate* to the next tree.
*Credit where credit is due: My friend Joe Willy supplied the word "brachiate," so I thought I should give him credit, as he is truly my Richie Sambora.
posted by James Hitchcock at 7:45 PM
2 comments
