Confessions # 1

23 02 2007

Many of you view this blog as a portal into my soul (or rather the soul-shaped hole within me that’s currently being leased to a tapeworm). No matter how it exposes me to the world, I can’t bring myself to censor my innermost thoughts and unabashed honesty. Who can forget such classic confessions as “I touch myself in the kittens department of Petco” and “I touch myself pretty much everywhere else outside of Petco”? In that grand tradition, I have yet another admission to make that may sadden and disturb many of you.

Sometimes I watch The L Word.

It’s not what you think. The show isn’t purely masturbatory fodder for me. I consider it a weekly anthropological study into the culture and traditions of the modern lesbian. For example, did you know lesbians don’t carry any cash on them? They have developed a currency system that is based solely on cunnilingus. It’s exchanging goods for services in the purest sense of the words. I could be mistaken, but given the frequency of its occurence on the show it’s either that or some source of vitamins they need to survive. Perhaps it’s the same reason that old timey English sailors used to get scurvy – there were no citrus fruits or vagina to replenish them.

Another thing I’ve learned is that every lesbian is balls hot. A lot of media would have you think that the lesbians among us are no more or less stunning than anyone else statistically speaking, but that’s simply untrue. The image of the hirsuit bulldyke with a crewcut and army boots is just a composite conjured up by conservative zealots who don’t want you to know that lesbians are all glamorous fashionistas with lithe, toned bodies and the face of an angel. Gay angels. Gayngles.

I know it’s not terribly manly to be swept up by the rampaging drama of girls alternately weeping and eating snooch, but the show speaks to my demographic (Sexually Repressed 30-something White Dudes With An Oedipal Complex) unlike other similar media. For example, if I get sucked into a program on Lifetime I know that if I invest 55 minutes of my life into the heart-wrenching tale of a woman scorned, my reward is something paltry like her reclaiming custody of a lost child or escaping a life of abuse and degredation. On The L Word, it’s pretty much the same scenario, but I can also guarantee there will be at least one make-out scene with exposed nipples. That’s what I call paying out dividends.

In conclusion, I feel congratulations is in order to me. Not only did I offer a glimpse into me at my most exposed, I wrote this entire thing without using some of the choicest and decidely vulgar terms I have for female nether-regions. Lesbians of the world, I got yo back.




One response

23 02 2007

hirsute, homeslice. although it covers the whole body, it’s not actually a “suit”. and whaever happened to the traditional colloquialism for vagina, “the snappy nappy dugout”, huh?

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