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I’m talking about that night/day metronomic
pulsing itch-ache blighting your chi, your groove
thang, anchored deep. And don’t say you don’t
know what I mean, unless you’re a lawyer.
The only thing, for me, that really blasts through
the toxic drone of modern life, with its water torture
of red tape and repetition, its arcade game of spirit
shooting, its antic evil clown persona, is a brilliant,
singular, id-driven… bad boy. I mean ‘novel’.
Okay, I mean bad boy.
Now, humans are strange brews, real pieces of work,
and monkey-adjacent, let’s face it. We dangle,
fairly hairlessly, a fiber-optic thread above orangutans,
maybe. It depends on one’s definition
of ‘above.’
Monkeys laugh a lot, touch without lawsuits, find
snacks in their fur and are fully Enlightened—merged
with the Force in the ‘now.’ Humans, conversely,
are like yammering brats (I see South Park) who lost
their house keys and bang on the door, in perpetuity,
to no answer. There’s no answer, I submit, for
one or more of these reasons:
• God, a fat, grunting leather-boy sadist,
created us for his own perverse amusement.
I stopped playing with dolls once I tired of making
Winston Churchill (‘collectible’ from
London) have screaming scenes and make-up sex with
the buxom Senorita (‘collectible from Acapulco.)
God, however, has so many live action figures to scramble,
his interest is omni-piqued.
• Alternate scenario: God can’t hear
the door-banging. He’s in the basement with
the real Mr. Universe, Satan, doing lines.
No, wait! If you listen closely you can hear that
God and Satan, whoa, have the same voice!
They’re actually the same per… whatever
the fuck they are, with MPD!
• It’s the wrong door.
• Humans are not native Earthlings. We were
‘seeded’ here from Beyond.
Us bleating, joy-bashing, cell phone flipping bipeds
are the only fauna that can’t thrive on the
Earth as it is. That’s why we so often feel
outside of life, can’t sort things out, are
at dis-ease. Do manatees live lives of ‘quiet
desperation?’ I think not.
We also hold the distinction of craving sex outside
of a reproductive season. We’re hide-the-salami
obsessed. We build cultures around IT; exploiting
it, suppressing it, legislating it, selling it, perverting
it. We go broke for it. We have plastic surgery for
it (heard of ‘designer labioplasty?’)
We take drugs for it.
Wow, how ascended. Just writing this fills me with
heavenly light.
“Psychobiology” is the study of the biological
foundations of the mind; emotions and behavior. Humans
love to flatter themselves that they’re so complex,
but we’re so not.
We all know that the male brain is hard wired to
want to impregnate as many young, fertile chi-chis
as possible. It just is. Sorry, girls. I was at a
café once, near Cameron Diaz. Two guys were
at the table next to me. One of them says to his friend,
“Just think… there’s some guy somewhere
who’s sick of fucking her.”
Men struggle to keep a lid on their natural slut-dom
to “preserve the family structure” in
our Stalag Society. It ain’t working so well,
yo.
My people (chi-chis) of course, have a different
M.O. WE are pre-set to be selective, to drag the lake
for a male with the best possible genes to fecundate
our uteri (knock our ho asses up.) In other words,
we seek an Alpha Male. But what , pray tell, is an
Alpha Male post hunter-gatherer?
To ambitious gynecoids (broads), especially the implanted
(silicone, not alien), the Alpha Male is determined
by credit line and egregious possessions. Those markers,
however, can be a ruse. Rich guys are usually older,
over-groomed, self-besotted and funny-looking. The
cash that’s supposed to supercede those wussy
traits is often held by the ex-wives, a.k.a. ‘the
bitches’, who are always, according to them,
“mentally unstable.”
Then there’s that other big Alpha Male template—a
hard left turn—the bad boy. You know, the outlaw,
the pirate, the biker, the artist, the explorer, the
revolutionary, the autodidact, the Special Forces
hit man, the occult master, the spy, the visionary.
The scoffers of consequence.
The Heathcliffs. The Rhett Butlers. Guys Johnny Depp
would play. You got it.
These men won’t fly you to the Maldives, but
if somebody looks at you wrong, they’ll kick
his face in. It all goes back to the cavemen, baby.
Women (most) need partners to bloom. Real un-P.C.,
but again, blame biology. Some chicks trounce the
odds and find that perfect mate, or so they think
until the Celestial Puppeteer wants to rumble.
For the rest of us, to be frank, its either forks
or chopsticks, no matter what the spin.
Choose ‘security’ and relax into a solid
if not soaring downtempo bond. Split the chores. Sleep
in your tooth-bleaching molds. Croon over the new
TV. Navigate our three dimensions with the ease and
pleasures conformity can bring. Risk thinking, “What
the fuck am I doing?”
Choose ‘star tripping’ and blast off
with a wild brain to parts unknown. Merge sparks and
ignite so fiercely, its mutual arson. Touch other
worlds. Feel rare. Forget meals. Burn hard, maybe
burn out. Fall back to Earth and make a crater. Risk
thinking, “What the fuck am I doing?”
Some of us, however, oddly, have no choice. Whenever
I eat a lobster, I always scarf the claw first.
Xanadu Xero invites you to join the Raw
Story Forums and visit her fiefdom, The
Raw Bar, to discuss these topics, any other damn
thing, or just bitch and talk trash. You can also
view an archive of her columns by clicking
here.
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