Three Self-Evident Truths:
ONE; Fantasy is always better than reality
TWO; Life is always better than death
THREE; Sex is a drug
Who dares to disagree?
I try to get my wife to do stuff. Sometimes. Not all the time. Hardly ever. Once in while, you know to spice things up. I say, “Honey, let’s have a little fantasy.” And she rolls her eyes, gives a sigh of ‘oh god’, then closes her eyes, puts her arms across her chest and says, “Fine.”
Not what I had in mind. And I’d been fantasizing for days. It was hot. Yum.
But reality has a way of trumping fantasy. Like how so much better to watch the NFL on TV than in a stadium. Or meeting a hero who is so much shorter than you imagined and whose eyes are running away from your humanity.
Fantasy is good I think, a diversion, entertainment, but reality tests our mettle while fantasy indulges our weaknesses.
I wonder as more and more of our fellow citizens manifest as human time-bombs and take out their families, fellow-employees, and/or other objects of dark passion; how one’s evolution goes from “Well, John was just an ordinary guy, you know. Quiet. Kept to himself. But ordinary, you know…” to killing your children before blowing out your own brains – I wonder at the degree to which fantasy takes over the thoughts and energy of a person’s glide toward explosion.
Killing your own kids. Greek Tragedies should be left for Heroes and normal folk should humbly make their way and raise a family without becoming tragedians themselves.
There is this woman in Florida who premeditatedly shot her grown son dead in the back of the head as they enjoyed a play-date at an indoor shooting range. And then she shot herself. The woman believed she was the Anti-Christ who had to sacrifice her son and herself to save the world.
Human time bombs explode almost every week now. So numerous they often fail to make national headlines. How many more stories do you want to read about another parent murdering his own children in cold blood?
What is the trajectory of the great hopes and expectations (fantasies?) we have for our lives versus those dreams dashed on the rocks of reality – no money, no house, no wife, no kids, no job and voices in your head telling you to save your children from an evil world by shot-putting them into the next. How many of these human time bombs have gone down some deep end of fanaticism or are under medication for ‘depression’ or have become so impersonalized in an impersonal world, their own children are ambivalent objects in a clash of realities? What is the chatter of internal dialog which drives a human being from daddy to monstrosity?
“What is the frequency, Kenneth?” Dan Rather was famously asked by just another nut.
But it’s better to live in a crazy mother-fucking world than to be dead and out of it. Am I right? Life is always better than death. Well, poor Mrs. Schiavo is a perfect example. Death is so bad everything must be done to prevent it. Death is Evil. Isn’t that it? Original Sin. Something like that. Anyway, it’s not that life is so great, because obviously unless you’re one of the billion or so out of six billion on the planet who can make a go of things, life totally sucks. And yet, a human being will struggle to survive like, well like any animal really – to the last breath.
Ironically, we have this apparently withering Culture of Life which watches in silence as billions starve and vomit to death in human desolation, a holocaust by poverty if you will, while a human vegetable in a hospital bed must be saved at all costs.
And hence, we have hell on earth, hell in hell and paradise for nutjobs who murder their own children to save the world from themselves.
Death is one of our great mysteries. Perhaps it will be our last mystery. Death is a secret. And because Death isn’t saying much people like to put words in death’s mouth and explain the secrets of life through death’s shadow in Plato’s Cave.
All of us interpret life and death in our own way and take comfort where we choose. Is to choose life always better than death because fear of the unknown is so great?
So I say to my wife, “Honey, I’ve been reading a woman can have an orgasm for an hour.”
And she says, “Only before I met you, Sweetie.”
“So a woman can have an hour-long orgasm?”
“It’s not something you put a clock against,” she says.
“Huh. Wow. An hour. That would literally kill a man.”
“That’s the point,” she says. “If an hour-long orgasm didn’t kill a man what the hell do you think the world would be like then, huh? A smoldering ruin.”
“Hmm. Still. An hour. Maybe it’s worth death to experience something like that.”
“Men,” she says.
“What do you mean, before you met me? I thought you loved me.”
And she gives me this long Jack Benny look before the big punch-line. I see her going back and forth between retort “A” and riposte “B” and finally she says, “Honey I didn’t marry you for your dick. You make me laugh.”
“Huh?”
“Do you want women to choose their mate based upon who they have the best sex with?”
“Uh…”
“Hell, we’d still be in caves. Your sex is fine but I’m starting to worry about your brain which was one of your major attractions for a long time.”
“Sex is fine?”
“It’s fine. You give me pleasure. I love you. So shut the hell up and stop reading about fantasy orgasms which don’t exist!”
“They don’t?” I ask, “Before or after me?”
“Look Prince Charming with hair growing out of your ears and love handles more like love caskets, the first time I saw you my knees got weak, I swooned, I got wet in all the right places and I wanted you right then and there more than any man I’d ever met and I feel that way to this very day so shut the hell up and go do something productive with all the extra energy you have reading about sex instead of having it.”
“Do you want to do a little fantasy thing?”
“Yeah,” she says, “Let’s pretend I’m Dorothy and you’re the Scarecrow and we’re off to get you a brain in the garage which needs a spring cleaning.”
Fantasy is always better than reality. Life is always better than death. Sex is a drug.
Anyway, that’s the humane way to execute a man. Forget death by injection or gas chamber or electric chair – death by orgasm. That’s the way to go. On the other hand, there’d probably be a big crime spree wouldn’t there…
