Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Men Are Pigs...

Contrary to Einstein’s theories about the speed of light, this simple formulation is, without a doubt, the true Universal Constant.

I was reminded of this time-honored rule of thumb by a snippet of conversation I heard between two pimpled guidos of approximate high school age in the local Dunkin’ Donuts just yesterday.

It would seem that the two…ahem…gentlemen…in question have had occasion to date a particular set of sisters. Now, when I say ‘date’ I mean that in the strictly utilitarian definition, as kids today don’t really date as we old motherfuckers would understand that term. Apparently, what the hip, happenin’ kids all do now is to hang out at some convenient meeting place (a mall, let’s say), coagulate into a annoying colony of about 20-30 shrieking individuals, who still feel the need to text someone standing five feet away from them. On occasion, a pair (hopefully of opposite sexes) will break from the herd, maybe make out with each other in the food court, and then just as quickly break contact and gravitate towards the outer range of the crowd for the remainder of the evening, only to begin the process all over again with a new partner the following week.

If there is any contact or communication between the principles in the interim, it takes place through the medium of text messages, and perhaps a ‘like’ or a photo post on Facebook. Apparently kids today no longer call each other on the telephone and hold conversations, preferring this electronic correspondence with it’s arcane rules and kewl (do they even use that one anymore?) misspellings of mundane words, complete with bastardized grammar. But, I digress…

I also have to make one other thing clear; when I say that these young men had dated a particular set of sisters what I mean to say is that both boys had dated, in the kid sense, both sisters, but at separate times.

The boys then compare notes, and share secrets about each girls charms, or lack thereof, with a complete set of racy cell phone pictures to illustrate this or that arcane point of anatomy.

At first, I was kind of disgusted to listen to this type of talk. Gentlemen don’t behave this way, and I was beginning to think that society had, indeed, gone to hell in a handbasket. Then I had occasion to remember something from my own past…when the boys did exactly this sort of thing, only in a technologically-challenged fashion; we didn’t have young girls equipped, to take and send us compromising photos at a moment’s notice, even if they were eager and willing to do so.

And then I recalled that this behavior actually got worse when I entered my early 20’s, for I began to recall a certain set of identical triplets, and the crude standing bet that existed amongst a particular circle of young animals…erm….men.

There were three sisters, as I have said. Identical triplets. They were named – I shit you not – Meryl, Beryl and Cheryl. Apparently, Mom had some sort of mental disorder. These three were everything a fur-breasted, mouth-breathing young buck with a stiff prick and no conscience could ever want: tall, blond and stacked.

Back in the day, that was more than enough.

Anyway, there was a standing bet; the goal was to achieve verifiable carnal knowledge of all three. The winner would get free drinks for a year from the rest of the crew.

Now, if Meryl, Beryl and Cheryl had been coming of age in, say, 2012, this cause might not have been as hopeless as it sounds. However, we lads had the misfortune of having these perverted thoughts in the mid-1980’s, when AIDS was an out-of-control epidemic that scared the bejesus out of people, and when there was still some semblance of the moral codes of an older time that had managed to survive the unbridled hedonism of the 1970’s.

There just was no way, short of plying them all with alcohol and perhaps committing a brace of felonies, that any single male in this group of demented thinkers was ever going to achieve this Trifecta.

For one thing, back in those days, sisters did not share boyfriends, nor did they sneak behind one another’s backs (often) to steal each other’s men. They operated on a Honor System that most modern feminazis would eagerly chuck if it brought them a momentary advantage (but afterwards, they’d feel guilty for being a slut and then have to sue someone to assuage the guilt and shame), and such things just ‘weren’t done’.

Watch any episode of the Maury Povich Show or Jerry Springer these days, and you’ll soon discover that not only are sisters sharing men, they’re also very often fighting each other for child support payments from the same dude.

So, the thing to do, we reckoned, was to somehow manage to get each triplet alone, and somehow manage to keep your association a secret from all three so that they could not compare notes, or somehow contrive not to be seen when any two triplets congregated together. This idea, it turned out, almost worked; it got one of us to at least second base with two of the sisters, but then it all fell apart when the third caught on.

By the way, you DO NOT wan to face a united front of pissed off triplets you’ve been two-timing, and trying to three time, as well. Let’s just say this: that particular lad had a lovely Camaro right up until he was found out.

Then again, I also happen to know that the Triplets, themselves, occasionally resorted to subterfuge and swapped identities at least once. As I found out when I thought I was once about to get busy with Meryl, only to find out that she and Cheryl had played a joke upon me, and I was subsequently semi-humiliated by the evil laughter of three sisters who had been toying with me from the very beginning. Suffice to say, this Lunatic went home that evening with a very disappointed Mr. Peabody.

Alas, the bet still stands, if anyone still remembers it, for so far as I know not one of the gallant band of drunken degenerates I used to hang out with ever succeeded in achieving the Holy Grail of Triplet Muff. In retrospect, it now seems the stuff of Penthouse Letters (which everyone knows are complete bullshit) and B-grade Hollywood teen movies.

Of course, I could listen to those boys talk all day, if only because it does evoke a sense of misdirected nostalgia. There was a time when I could speak of such things openly and as crudely as this pair of 16-year old masses of zits and baby fat, which strikes me as something odd; having more or less ‘grown up’, why would I want to? Why should I want to?

Perhaps because this discussion, totally lacking in any redeeming moral quality as it was, reminded me of a simpler time when my main concerns were those that revolved around the axis of my wedding tackle. Or maybe it’s because that while I certainly can still go out and get myself a pair of sisters (I would suggest that such things are now easier than they ever have been before. Thank you Feminism for making consequence-free sex the new normal, veritable low-hanging fruit for the amoral sexual pervert), I find that all of a sudden, I really don’t want to.

The thought now strikes the rational mind as both selfish and disgusting, and really, let’s face it; it’s just one more of them power fantasies that all men have and which most give up as soon as they begin to realize there’s more to life than Making the Beast with Two Backs, even with newer and more twisted methods.

Twenty years from now, those two boys will be full-grown men, and hopefully they will have learned to be offended by such talk, perhaps by imagining their own daughters as the main subject.of conversation.

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