Sunday, April 24, 2011

He's Just Not That Into Peace

It was once supposed that scientists and poets must be kindred spirits for men of any measure of intelligence must be brothers in this lonesome world. So, bupkis was put forward suggesting that if Shelley, Poe, Yeats...if any of them had been born just one hundred years later, all the sciences (biology, chemistry and perhaps even pharmacology) would have their intrepid heroes. Likewise, it was suggested just years after that the souls of our Einsteins and Edison's were those of dancers, singers and romantics. Naturally, with the exception of Einstein who is troublesome to people wary of exceptions, this was all nonsense. Yet here now is a proposition with some measure of sense. This tale tells of a young man by the name of Kurt Vonnegut who, had he been born just a quarter century later, would have been the author of chick lit and a romance advise columnist for the Post.

So It Goes

Dear Kurt,

My husband and I have been drifting apart for years now. He used to look at me like a woman, but now he looks at me like a stubborn peg from which he can't untangle his suit. I believe he's begun having an affair with our neighbor Wendolyn because she's the only passably attractive woman who would have anything to do with him. He also looks at nearly every piece of ass, no matter what size or shape, on all of the few occasions that we actually leave the house. I just, I'm worried about Hank. Don't get me wrong, I don't love him any more, but he still lives with me so I'm still pretty upset about the whole thing. Kurt, what can I do to save my loveless void of a marriage and why is my garbage husband doing this to me?

-Betty
Long Island City, NY


Dear Loveless,

Your husband is cheating on you. That's not news, of course. But you need to understand why he's cheating on you to see where the problem in this sham marriage is. Looking at other women is fun. Flirting with other women is fun. Touching a great set of breasts is fun. There is nothing in that which is boring or tedious. I've never looked at a pair of tits dangling in front of me like Christmas bells decorating the corridors of the filthiest Park Slope American (Traditional) Strip Joint (Children's Music Venue by day) and thought 'I could use a nap right now.' It's never happened. Men cheat on their wives the same reason women cheat on their husbands with plumbers, television repairmen, their best friends and their fathers. It's really fun and the only thing you have to worry about is the smell. And if I learned anything from the carpet-bombing of Saigon (and it's hard to say if I did), it's that a pack of men assured of their worthlessness will do anything for a good time. No matter how bad the smell.

So, if you want to bring your card parlour of a marriage back together, then bring some fun back into it. Now, I'm not saying take your husband out or wear sexy lingerie. That's over. Your husband will never be interested in you again. You're fatter than you ever were, probably gave up on your dreams for each other years ago, and you've got no ambitions or talents that he's going to become enamoured with. I'm talking about fun for you. Go out there and find some minority and just grab onto them. As many minorities as possible. Let them make love to you in ways your husband couldn't understand. Now, let me be clear. I know what you're thinking right now. You're thinking of bulging Spaniards that can dance, cook and make love. That's not going to happen. You can't pull anybody else's rank but your own. He's going to be overweight. He's probably going to have emphysema. Look, he might even die halfway through it, but that's not the point. The point is you're having fun in the same way that Hank is having fun when he feigns interests in Wendolyn's new finger paintings to get into her pants only to find out that's as barren a wasteland as he left at home.

So, go on, next time Teo the plump piece of Greek IT meat past his prime by however far he is from 9 years old, comes straddling by in his segue, get on that and give it a jump like your sorry sack of life depended on it. It doesn't, of course, but sometimes it's fun to think it does. Maybe just to feel a pulse.

And so it goes...



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