Tuesday, January 10, 2006

The failure of modern capitalism

In an age where, ever increasingly, the evils of the world seem to be rooted deep in greed and the amoral machinations of global corporate capitalism, I say it ain't all that it's cracked up to be. At the very least, there is still one area where the "free" market has yet to penetrate, subvert and commodify:

Sex.

I need sex. Now, before you go skipping over this post, this is not, I repeat, not a whining , "I'm single and so lonely" or "I can't get laid, why doesn't anyone like me?" rant. I know the reasons and answers to that, and I ain't going into them here. I don't want to hear it and neither do you, trust me. And I'm not talking about pornography either; Girls Gone Wild, while a sign of the impending apocalypse, is far from sex itself. In fact it's the exact opposite, just an electric cock tease, a digital dry hump.

I need fuck. I need it on a very base, biological level. I know this in the same way that I know I need sleep or food. Deep down in the back of my mind is an itch I can't scratch. I'm distracted all the damn time. My blood feels like 100 proof rocket fuel. I can't tell if I want to curse, scream or start a fight. I know this feeling, *grunt*.

Here's my beef though: I don't see why I can't take care of this like I would a haircut or a dentist appointment. I want to be able to show up, slap down my money, take care of my business and get on with my life.

In my eyes this is no different than eating. If for whatever reason I don't or can't cook for myself, I can go out and buy food that someone else has prepared. Society provides! Maybe I just don't have the time to cook, or maybe I shouldn't be allowed near an open flame. Regardless, I don't have to starve, sitting around being miserable, cursing myself for my inability to make toast. Pissing away my self esteem because I don't know the difference between a steak knife and butter knife.

If paying for and selling cooked food were illegal, it would have the same negative connotations and realities that prostitution has today. You would have to go to the worst part of town to get it, and there it would be ill-prepared, taste bad, and be rife with disease. Or, you'd have to go to horrible bars, make small talk with total idiots, buy $50 worth of drinks, just in the hope that some cute little thing will deign to take you back to her place and make you an omelete. And if you want to keep eating buddy, you better go buy a ring, and nevermind what a cow she is, 'cause she can make chicken wings! There'd be preachers, popes, and padres reminding us of the sacred place that cooking has in marriage, as a sign of God's love in the bond between a man and a woman. Loaves and fishes, baby, loaves and fishes.

5 Comments:

Blogger Samuel A Love said...

Dude, you either gotta go to Amsterdam or you gotta go back in time to St. Louis, 1871.

On a related-note: Do you think Doctor Who got his rocks off?

Tue Jan 10, 01:09:00 PM PST  
Blogger Bethie B said...

i love it when fuck is used as a noun. i need fuck. must have fuck. wet, grunty, fuck.

Tue Jan 10, 01:12:00 PM PST  
Blogger Samuel A Love said...

how 'bout: "Bowl of Fuck" As in, "Eat a bowl of fuck."

Tue Jan 10, 02:33:00 PM PST  
Blogger Chico said...

An ideal Friday night at the Quickie Mart in my perfect world: "One dime bag, pint of whiskey, and a packet of fuck please."

Wed Jan 11, 07:06:00 AM PST  
Blogger Chico said...

As for Dr. Who, why do you think he always kept that sonic screwdriver around? ;)

But seriously, with a Tardis, I'm sure the Doctor has no problems getting his rocks off. There's some sort of horny chick dimension that he can pop off to, and be back by tea time to fight some Daleks.

Wed Jan 11, 07:09:00 AM PST  

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