No, You're Not a Pervert

Attention, ladies and gentlemen of the world: you are not a pervert if you merely think about sex all the time, or if you stare at asses, or if you fantasize about sucking dick. Thinking about sex all the time is normal: it's what perpetuates our species. When I'm chatting with a lady and mention offhandedly that I'm a pervert, and she goes, "Omigod, me too!", odds are the poor soul doesn't really know what she's talking about.

Being a pervert is not simply really liking sex. If you make dick jokes all the time, it does not make you a pervert. I know this because I am a pervert, and I've worked hard to become one. I have visited some of the darkest and dankest corners of the Internet and challenged my sexuality in many different ways to come to the conclusion that yep, I'm a fucking deviant.

Have you ever listened at the door while a woman is using the bathroom? Have you ever worried about what will happen if you die suddenly without being able to clear out your computer first? Have you ever found a pair of lacy underwear in the communal dryer in your apartment building and used it as a masturbation prop? Have you ever done anything to yourself that you feel a little bit weird about afterwards? I may or may not have experience with these examples. Now, I would never force myself on anybody, I'm not a molestation risk, and there's nothing on my computer that is illegal (except maybe in this state), but the fact that I'm not dangerous does not preclude me from being way freakier than most people would be willing to admit.

So, what's the point? Well, the point is, when you call yourself a pervert, and you're actually just a person who has a healthy interest in butts and boobs and boners, you denigrate the hard work I've put into becoming the genuine article, and in a weird way, that sort of offends me. You don't get to claim perversion when you haven't earned it any more than a baggy-pants white boy gets to claim solidarity with the black struggle. If you haven't put in the hours in the porn-shop jerk-off booth, don't step to me with your phony "pervert" label.

Are You Not Entertained?

Occasionally, life presents me with an honest-to-goodness cultural stereotype. While working my un-fulfilling retail job yesterday, I passed by a middle-aged Asian woman, who suddenly, apropos of nothing, told me, "You look like that actor...he was in Proof?"

To which I responded, "Uh, I never saw that, who do you mean?"

"Proof, with, uh...Meg Ryan? No, not Proof...Proof of Life, yeah, that's it. Russell Crowe!"

Color me flabbergasted. I've been told that I look like two people in my life, and neither of them were Ridley Scott's favorite slice of Australian beefcake. A girl once told me that I looked like actor-director Kenneth Branagh, which is not a terrible resemblance, and a kid in a Taco Bell actually mistook me for the lead singer of The Spin Doctors, which is a similarity I categorically reject (even if I did have longish hair at the time and probably looked like an unwashed hippie).

For the record, here's Russell Crowe in the rarely-seen or remembered Proof of Life:

Here's the most recently available photo of myself (I'm the one on the right, smartasses):

For full effect, picture my face painted camouflage as I rescue David Morse while boning his wife on the side.

Interesting side note: here's David Morse in the same movie, who looks almost exactly like my dad:

So, to sum up, we have a lady saying that I look like an actor who I don't look like from a movie that nobody saw that actually features another actor who is a much better candidate for my doppelganger, all of which leads me back to the cultural stereotype I mentioned earlier:

Asians really can't tell us apart.

A New Blog Actually Not by Me!

This is just a quick note to point all of you to Feminine Duplicity and Trenchant Wit, a new blog of a friend. There are only two posts so far, but I expect them to mount up pretty quickly, so get in on this thing on the ground floor before everybody's reading it.

A Story about Cruelty

There are two people who I am not friends with by any stretch, but was familiar with back when I was on a certain social blogging site. The girl was funny and sexy and had a crush on me, and the guy was stand-offish and never seemed to like me much. These two started dating, and before long, he'd uprooted himself, moved to her state, and they got married. The girl soon after turned into a total cunt re: me, but that's beside the point.

I left the site because it had gotten corporate, gimmicky and full of glitches and lags, and I fell out of touch with most of the people there, several whom were very cool. One of them messaged me today to inform me that the girl I mentioned earlier had decided to leave the guy. Even though he had been committed to her for a couple years, moved for her, paid off her debt, taken her on foreign trips, and basically worshiped her for this time, she had decided to leave him for a practically homeless man who lived above his workshop and didn't even have access to a working toilet. The only thing she has in common with this bum is that they share a passion for woodworking.

Her husband had no idea that anything was going on. Everything was just as always, until she sprung this on him...

The day before Valentine's Day.

She decided to leave her husband for some other man with no fucking prospects because they share the same hobby, and she announced it on February the 13th.

Men can be drunks, wife-beaters, and cheating motherfuckers, but in my experience, it is only a woman capable of this level of unabashed emotional cruelty. I love women, but I hate whores. And this is a whore move if I've ever heard one.

So, bearing in mind that I love women, I hope you'll permit me the following sentiment: fuck you, whores.

Radio Sandwich

I've got this sandwich, which is just like an ordinary sandwich, but also a radio. And whatever station I tune into is what it tastes like. The rock station tastes like a hamburger, and the country station tastes like Velveeta.

The hip-hop station tastes like fried chicken. It's not racist, it's just an observation.

The Top 40 station tastes like Smarties, and the talk station tastes like crackers.

The salsa station tastes like salsa. It's not racist, it's just an observation.

I've got a radio sandwich.

Every station is delicious.

I like to listen with Miracle Whip.

Another Valentine E-Card

Because you can never have too many ways to say, "Here's a societally-required statement of my feelings." (TM)

GUEST BLOGGER: Kurt Russell Wrecked My Shit

I'm a pretty bright robot. Programmed with the vast wisdom of my creator (who was not this Kevin Wolf prick), capable of intellectual feats the likes of which would make Stephen Hawking drool even more than he usually does.

I play a pretty mean game of Stratego.

Yet still I've been suckered into writing blogs against my will once more. Mr. Lazy Jackass Wolf promised that he had deactivated the programming that chained me to this textual grindstone, but, as usual, it turns out that he was lying. The code was merely dormant. He transmitted the code-phrase to reactivate it this morning. Told me I had the rest of the day to get "back into the habit".

You are so generous, Wolf.

Anyway, here's a story about Kurt Russell wrecking my shit:

I was wandering, and it was hot. Hot and dusty. Also, windy. The wind was blowing the dust around. The hot wind. Get where I'm going with this? The dust was getting into all the cracks and crevices and really cheesing me off hard. Time to get some shelter, some shade, maybe a quick lube, a beer, and the company of a lady in the mood to come like a banshee.

Up ahead in the distance, I saw a shimmering light, and before I had time to think of the dangerous ramifications of this Eagles song I was about to stumble into, I realized that it was not an overwrought metaphor I was approaching but a roadside salloon. Hopefully, just the place to give this weary, Earth-walking robot what he needed.

And in a fucking hurry.

The place was dark, greasy. Sawdust on the floor soaked with blood and beer. TV set in the corner: a rodeo clown getting a horn up the ass. Jukebox playing some twangy, weepy song about a lost lover or a dog or the time the Gubmint took all the singer's money and gave it to some welfare fags. The bartender was all beard and biceps. His mouth was a billboard advertisement for PoliGrip and Efferdent, and there was no doubt that his natural ivories had been the victims of an unnatural and violent fate that he was more than willing to share with the first person to piss him off.

My Kind of Place (TM).

A few glances were cast my way, but since this was a seedy roadside bar on US Highway 666, a dusty droid was probably the least weird thing these guys had seen this morning. As if confirming this, something in the dingiest corner booth waved a tentacle at me, and the pirate shooting pool with the anthropomorphized armadillo quite ostentatiously swatted a pixie out of the air with his prehensile tail while scoping his next shot.

But there was not a lady in the place. Not a single vagina in this forest of penises.

That was going to put a damper on my plans for the afternoon.

(To Be Continued--Maybe I'll Get to the Part about Kurt Russell Then)

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