The Scientific Process
Not that we're living monastic lives, but most guys intercourse-quotients are underwhelming. Luckily, we're redeemed by hypothesis and theory of the truly unsexed: the little lab-coated, bespectacled behemoths of math and science. Proposed by minds far greater than ours, by channeling energy most men use for gawking and trying to put their penis in places it doesn't belong, lab-dwelling hermits have unwittingly pacified the guys who made them seek refuge from society's glare in the first place: every drooling playground jock and bully, all grown up.
Even if the earthbound only make love to shampoo bottles and Krispy Kremes, in (hypothetical) infinite alternate parallel dimensions other scenarios unfold. In one alternate reality you're an oversexed celebrity; in another a wizard with a penchant for compulsion; elsewhere, a coroner. Hell, you could just be a desperate Joe with the cash for corner cooch. Whatever. Cosmic balance dictates somewhere you could be less of a loser than you are here. Rejoice. It's far fetched, but so are those fantasies involving the bartendress.
Elaborate, perfect fantasies that they are, growing grander by the glass, they never play out in practice like they do in mind. For the few who muster courage to accost beauties across the bar, they usually find their heart-melting words deteriorate into a mangled mash-up of stutters and, when they begin to panic, exclamations from the id. "Hey, I, um --." Confidence fading. Quickly. Take to muttering and looking in an opposite direction, praying someone calls your name to remove you from this embodiment of awkwardness. Muttering under the breath, "Goddamnit. Fuck." Turning back to the object of your fantasies and mumbling something that brings a dumbfounded, cocked-head stare. You start to shake when you realize you might've just spilled the beans of intention, instead of disguising those plans behind a wall of cool and tact and paid-for beverages. "A beer for a tittyfuck?"
Looks like another night living through other dimensions.
Even if the earthbound only make love to shampoo bottles and Krispy Kremes, in (hypothetical) infinite alternate parallel dimensions other scenarios unfold. In one alternate reality you're an oversexed celebrity; in another a wizard with a penchant for compulsion; elsewhere, a coroner. Hell, you could just be a desperate Joe with the cash for corner cooch. Whatever. Cosmic balance dictates somewhere you could be less of a loser than you are here. Rejoice. It's far fetched, but so are those fantasies involving the bartendress.
Elaborate, perfect fantasies that they are, growing grander by the glass, they never play out in practice like they do in mind. For the few who muster courage to accost beauties across the bar, they usually find their heart-melting words deteriorate into a mangled mash-up of stutters and, when they begin to panic, exclamations from the id. "Hey, I, um --." Confidence fading. Quickly. Take to muttering and looking in an opposite direction, praying someone calls your name to remove you from this embodiment of awkwardness. Muttering under the breath, "Goddamnit. Fuck." Turning back to the object of your fantasies and mumbling something that brings a dumbfounded, cocked-head stare. You start to shake when you realize you might've just spilled the beans of intention, instead of disguising those plans behind a wall of cool and tact and paid-for beverages. "A beer for a tittyfuck?"
Looks like another night living through other dimensions.
posted by Mr. Pibba at 10:53 AM
1 Comments:
glad to see the dumpster posting again. keepin it dirty. uuuuuuuuuuuGHGHGHGGGGhhhhhhh. NASTY DIRTY DOGGY DYLE.
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