Although I was raised in a decidedly Christian family, Christianity and the practices associated with it have disturbed me since I was old enough to think for myself. Although most of the popular Christian holidays have questionable attributes (flying reindeer and Christmas, Lent and self-deprivation), Easter is by far the strangest holiday of them all.
So what is Easter all about? Well, on the surface, it's really pretty morbid. Take one popular dude, turn his friends against him, nail him to a cross and stick him in a tomb. Three days later he rolls the big ole rock away from the entrance and crawls out, unscathed but for a few little wounds on his hands and feet. Bandaid might make it better, but according to the tale of Jesus, if you're down with God even the Grim Reaper can't touch that.
So Easter is about the Son of God dying (to save us from sin, as legend has it) and then rising from the dead, not as a zombie, but as a normal dude, just like before. Makes for a good story, I'll give them that.
But is that really what Easter is about? Well, a visit to Walmart tells me otherwise. After all, a stroll through the candy aisle is a visual assault of chocolate rabbits, foil-covered eggs and marshmallow peeps. I don't see a single Cocoa Crispy Christ on the shelves, not even a package of Cross Ribs. So what gives? We celebrate the death and undeath of the Son of God by eating really waxy chocolate hares? Something just doesn't seem right.
Turns out that Easter wasn't always Easter. The predecessor of Easter was Eastre, a pagan celebration of the goddess of springtime and reproduction, and Eastre was, appropriately enough, manifested in an earthly form as a rabbit. So all you good Christian folks out there buying up the Easter Bunnies are really paying homage to a Pagan goddess. Did you know that?
Somewhere along the line the Christians realized they'd probably be in big trouble if they tried to celebrate the Resurrection of Christ while the pagans were celebrating the bigger picture. Instead of celebrating a distinctive festival, they decided to "appropriate" Eastre and change the festivities a tad. In other words, Easter is a rip-off because the Christians were afraid that, unlike Jesus, they probably wouldn't be rising from the dead, as zombies or anything else.
So we celebrate the fact that God's son died and came back from the dead (and not as a zombie) by stuffing our kids with chocolate Easter bunnies, the symbol of reproduction. Could this be the real cause behind promiscuity and pregnancy in teens? Probably not - after all, Easter bunnies are losing ground to chocolate Homer Simpsons, chocolate High School Musical, chocolate Spiderman and chocolate Disney Princesses. There goes that theory. I guess modernity is now appropriating Easter.
Somehow the idea of celebrating the end of winter and arrival of spring, the rebirth of the natural world, and getting busy like bunnies is appealing. Much more appealing than celebrating a dude who died but came back to life, not as a zombie. I'm going to the drugstore to hunt down some chocolate, and you can bet your little winter-white tail it's going to be chocolate in the shape of a rabbit. Those people celebrating Easter can have the chocolate motorcycles and the marshmallow Mickey Mice. Until they smarten up and start gnoshing on Jelly Bean Jesus, I'm sticking to the real deal.
Happy Eastre, friends.
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sex. Show all posts
Saturday, April 4, 2009
Friday, March 27, 2009
Battery Operated Pants
I think I've finally figured out why more and more people are having trouble existing without a cell phone on their person. I'd like to tell you people that it's ok, I understand. Sex addiction, like typhoid fever, black lung and psychosis is a disease. It's time to swallow the bitterest pill and take back your life without phone.
Cell phones have never made me happy. The thought that I am obligated to answer the phone no matter where I am or what I'm doing seems counterproductive and sinister, but nowhere near as evil as the little electronic bleat my first cell made when someone demanded my attention. Like jamming a Q-tip in just a little too far to dig out that elusive ball of wax, my cell phone ring annoyed me to the point of anguish. So I turned it off.
Unfortunately not everyone has mastered that button with the circle-encompassed line. Realizing the soul-wrenching tone of those rings, cell companies installed what the addicted refer to as "options", also known as downloads. If Muzak didn't kill Iron Maiden surely Rogers will. The annoyance increased exponentially, and so the vibrating phone was born.
At first it seemed a godsend. No longer did phones blurt out in movie theaters, the world seemed at peace once again. But as pockets across the continent started to silently stimulate, the reluctance to leave home without a fully charged phone grew. Soon asses were shifting in classroom chairs and under boardroom tables as a society with a sickness danced to the vibe. Addicted to the pleasant stroke of the ring, people young and old mastered the glance and dash, racing for a private spot where they could act on the sensations in their pants. The world became ill, unable to function without the caress of the vibration mode.
The cell phone companies would have you believe that you can't live without it, you need that buzz in your pants. You may believe it too, already addicted to getting off at the fingers of your lover, your parents, and strangers who hit the wrong key and wait to see who answers. But realize that you have the power to turn it off, take the phone out of your pants. There's a whole sensual world that has nothing to do with the vibration mode. Try it, leave your phone at home, make plans in advance, savour the anticipation of catching up over coffee instead of spilling your guts to a plastic battery-operated device. The longer you can last without that buzzer in your boxers, the easier it will be to get off on real people and real things.
Is that a Virgin in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Seriously, figure that one out and then we'll talk. I've got your number.
Cell phones have never made me happy. The thought that I am obligated to answer the phone no matter where I am or what I'm doing seems counterproductive and sinister, but nowhere near as evil as the little electronic bleat my first cell made when someone demanded my attention. Like jamming a Q-tip in just a little too far to dig out that elusive ball of wax, my cell phone ring annoyed me to the point of anguish. So I turned it off.
Unfortunately not everyone has mastered that button with the circle-encompassed line. Realizing the soul-wrenching tone of those rings, cell companies installed what the addicted refer to as "options", also known as downloads. If Muzak didn't kill Iron Maiden surely Rogers will. The annoyance increased exponentially, and so the vibrating phone was born.
At first it seemed a godsend. No longer did phones blurt out in movie theaters, the world seemed at peace once again. But as pockets across the continent started to silently stimulate, the reluctance to leave home without a fully charged phone grew. Soon asses were shifting in classroom chairs and under boardroom tables as a society with a sickness danced to the vibe. Addicted to the pleasant stroke of the ring, people young and old mastered the glance and dash, racing for a private spot where they could act on the sensations in their pants. The world became ill, unable to function without the caress of the vibration mode.
The cell phone companies would have you believe that you can't live without it, you need that buzz in your pants. You may believe it too, already addicted to getting off at the fingers of your lover, your parents, and strangers who hit the wrong key and wait to see who answers. But realize that you have the power to turn it off, take the phone out of your pants. There's a whole sensual world that has nothing to do with the vibration mode. Try it, leave your phone at home, make plans in advance, savour the anticipation of catching up over coffee instead of spilling your guts to a plastic battery-operated device. The longer you can last without that buzzer in your boxers, the easier it will be to get off on real people and real things.
Is that a Virgin in your pocket or are you just glad to see me? Seriously, figure that one out and then we'll talk. I've got your number.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Dear Britney Spears
Dear Britney Spears (and I use the term "dear" with great hesitation),
Surely you must realize by this point that you are pure and utter skank. I would say "udder skank", but I mean no offence to the bovine creatures with whom you are lucky to share this planet.
Ms. Spears, did you realize that you have no talent whatsoever? I mean, really, none! It's actually a little shocking. I'm not a big fan of Justin Timberlake, but the dude can dance, and he actually knows how to put a beat or two together. I'm not crazy about Madonna's tunes either, but she's one smart cookie and I respect her ability to combine sex and sass to turn herself into a viable business venture. But you, Ms. Spears, I have yet to figure out your contribution to art, culture, life on the planet, or even amusement as a concept. You are Jerry Springer in fishnet stockings - completely scary but impossible to stop looking at. You completely boggle my mind.
Sure, Britney (if I may call you that), you have tits and ass covered - or uncovered - as the case may be. But really, don't you find that's getting old? I mean any 8 year old worth his Bic lighter can find all the porn he needs for free on the internet without even Googling you. Where's the "value added" in your product? Most 80 year old grandmas would look hot if they hid behind as much makeup as you do. Remember Tammy Faye? You're only a few years and a televangelist husband off, Brit.
As for the "entertainment" end of your schtick... c'mon! If you looked like Roseanne your sales would be right up there with salt and vinegar soaked Bandaids. All these 12 year old girls buying your "music" see your image on the cover, but shouldn't they be searching Limewire for the guy who programs your beats, the dude who writes your songs, the producer who knows how to work a miracle and make it sound like you actually can hold a tune? Where are the credits for the person who duct tapes your boobs together so when you pretend that you can dance your cleavage goes along for the ride? You should be marketed as "Britney Spears and Friends". I'll bet you have a lot of them, too.
I keep trying to understand the appeal, Britney, I really do. But if I wanted half the drama involved in being you I'd just watch daytime TV. If I wanted something as braindead as your lyrics I'd buy a 40 of rum and a straw. If I wanted a beat that everyone and their dog was using I'd just rip you off. Oops... I think I did it again. Sorry.
Someday, Britney, maybe you'll learn that self-respect doesn't have to involve stripping, shaking and turning pre-teen girls into the next whore wannabes. Maybe you'll understand the fact that with 3 chords the Ramones made far more complex music than you could pull off with an entire studio of professionals. Maybe, Britney, just maybe, you'll aspire to be a role model, not a pole model. Or maybe I'm asking too much.
I apologize, Ms. Spears, for being so forthcoming (or to use a word you might understand, bitchy). Thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns. I know that you must be busy trying to figure out which pile of lingerie you left your brain cell under. I hope I haven't offended you in any way, but truth is, your existence offends the hell out of me. Leave the lowest common denominator alone and pick on someone your own size. What is that anyway, 32D? Oh sorry, didn't mean to confuse you with numbers.
Kindest Regards,
Sue
Surely you must realize by this point that you are pure and utter skank. I would say "udder skank", but I mean no offence to the bovine creatures with whom you are lucky to share this planet.
Ms. Spears, did you realize that you have no talent whatsoever? I mean, really, none! It's actually a little shocking. I'm not a big fan of Justin Timberlake, but the dude can dance, and he actually knows how to put a beat or two together. I'm not crazy about Madonna's tunes either, but she's one smart cookie and I respect her ability to combine sex and sass to turn herself into a viable business venture. But you, Ms. Spears, I have yet to figure out your contribution to art, culture, life on the planet, or even amusement as a concept. You are Jerry Springer in fishnet stockings - completely scary but impossible to stop looking at. You completely boggle my mind.
Sure, Britney (if I may call you that), you have tits and ass covered - or uncovered - as the case may be. But really, don't you find that's getting old? I mean any 8 year old worth his Bic lighter can find all the porn he needs for free on the internet without even Googling you. Where's the "value added" in your product? Most 80 year old grandmas would look hot if they hid behind as much makeup as you do. Remember Tammy Faye? You're only a few years and a televangelist husband off, Brit.
As for the "entertainment" end of your schtick... c'mon! If you looked like Roseanne your sales would be right up there with salt and vinegar soaked Bandaids. All these 12 year old girls buying your "music" see your image on the cover, but shouldn't they be searching Limewire for the guy who programs your beats, the dude who writes your songs, the producer who knows how to work a miracle and make it sound like you actually can hold a tune? Where are the credits for the person who duct tapes your boobs together so when you pretend that you can dance your cleavage goes along for the ride? You should be marketed as "Britney Spears and Friends". I'll bet you have a lot of them, too.
I keep trying to understand the appeal, Britney, I really do. But if I wanted half the drama involved in being you I'd just watch daytime TV. If I wanted something as braindead as your lyrics I'd buy a 40 of rum and a straw. If I wanted a beat that everyone and their dog was using I'd just rip you off. Oops... I think I did it again. Sorry.
Someday, Britney, maybe you'll learn that self-respect doesn't have to involve stripping, shaking and turning pre-teen girls into the next whore wannabes. Maybe you'll understand the fact that with 3 chords the Ramones made far more complex music than you could pull off with an entire studio of professionals. Maybe, Britney, just maybe, you'll aspire to be a role model, not a pole model. Or maybe I'm asking too much.
I apologize, Ms. Spears, for being so forthcoming (or to use a word you might understand, bitchy). Thank you for taking the time to consider my concerns. I know that you must be busy trying to figure out which pile of lingerie you left your brain cell under. I hope I haven't offended you in any way, but truth is, your existence offends the hell out of me. Leave the lowest common denominator alone and pick on someone your own size. What is that anyway, 32D? Oh sorry, didn't mean to confuse you with numbers.
Kindest Regards,
Sue
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
