A Real Man
My Facebook acquaintance John F. Mitchell. I continued my practice of sucking up to my female Facebook followers by ending the week with posting an erotically-charged image of Winston and myself along with some of my less offensive-looking associates in beefcake poses (including a delightful insert of Bro Joe attached to football player Rosey Grier in a reference to the horror classic The Thing with Two Heads). It got the desired reaction, with giddy "likes" from my social network minions save Mr. Mitchell, who responded with a photo of 1960s era television actor Patrick McGoohan along with the dour comment "Boys must be boys. But sometimes the lady's (sic) want a real man." I appreciate the fact that everyone's tastes in imaginary lovers are different and if Mr. Mitchell prefers to cast his erotic fantasies with the debonair star of Secret Agent and The Prisoner rather than my cronies and me, I encourage him to go for it. But I feel compelled to point out that Mr. McGoohan passed away in 2009 whereas my crew (with the possible exception of Joe) are still in our sexual prime and very much available for real-time erotic dalliances; a definite perk when diddling one's self to hunky celebs. But if Mr. Mitchell has a thing for tuxedo-clad dead celebrities, I will not judge him for it. With the recent passing of Don Rickles, his mind will be focused elsewhere anyway.
Speaking of celebrity crushes, annoying yenta Lisa Glass who posted a shirtless beefcake photo of screen legend Paul Newman on her Facebook wall with the breathless caption "We take a break from our regular broadcasting for...." Being an international sex symbol myself, I am accustomed to women swooning over the mere glimpse of a digitized image of me without a shirt. But even I must admit that Mr. Newman looked so good even in his old age that he probably remains doable in his current state. And based on the physique he was flashing in Ms. Glass' image, he was the ultimate hunk from head to toe in his heyday. That's a plus, because many of the women I dream about (such as Elizabeth Warren, Melala and the redhead cashier at the Ralphs down the street) have to have their noggins unscrewed and placed on the body of the model on the cover of the most recent Sports Illustrated bikini edition before they are ready for me to defile them in my imagination, and by that time I'm usually too tired to go through with it. Perhaps I should follow Ms. Glass' lead and imagine myself with Mr. Newman, who appears to be good to go out of the box. I'd have to make some major adjustments in my sexual orientation but with all the time I'm spending performing Frankenstein procedures on the women in my brain, I'm not getting any anyway.
Speaking of celebrities we fantasize about, Lynda Carter. I made a delightful Facebook illustration where Winston and I teamed up with Wonder Woman while I stare unapologetically at the superhero's ample rack. I am aware that an actress named Gal Gadot has taken over the mantel of Wonder Woman for a new age of sex-crazed movie-goers but for sex-crazed men of my generation, Ms. Carter will always be the one and only America's Guardian Angel. If you take offense at my casting Wonder Woman in a strictly sexual light whereas Batman and Superman don't have to put up with that crap despite wearing equally form-fitting uniforms, I'll recall back to over a decade ago when I worked at a bank and had a Wonder Woman calendar hanging in my cubicle. One of the months was decorated by an illustration from the original comic book of the heroine tied up in her own lasso, and every time I left the cubicle some unnamed co-worker would turn the calendar to face the wall when I returned. I'm not sure why the sight of Wonder Woman being tied up would be the cause of offense whereas if it was The Green Arrow or The Flash being tightly bound it would be no problem, but there you have it. Perhaps as a means of retribution, I'll imagine Ms. Carter (aka Wonder Woman) tying me up with her magic lasso tonight. I suppose my former coworker would be just as offended but I am doing it in the name of equality.
My longtime nemesis Misty LaRue, who celebrates a birthday today. For decades, Ms. LaRue made her living by hiring herself out for medical experimentation and by collecting nuisance lawsuits from throwing her body into the path of oncoming cars in Whole Foods parking lots. Over the past couple of years however, she changed her career trajectory by becoming a school teacher. It's hard for me to imagine the acid tongue of Ms. LaRue molding young minds but apparently she's taken to her new vocation like a duck to water and they adore her. Of course, Ms. LaRue teaches very young children so she doesn't have to deal with the hell of hormonal teenage boys who spend the school day looking at her with unbridled lust because, well, that's how they look at everything. In fact, for Teacher Appreciation Day last week I made an illustration where I am about to live out my favorite fantasy of a hot young teacher keeping me after class to discipline me (hey, I don't have to justify my middle school fantasies to you) recast with Ms. LaRue in the female lead. It may be less than erotic to you but it would have served my 13 year-old self just fine. I would just have to unscrew her head and pop it on Lynda Carter's body.
The Trump administration, for getting the god-awful TrumpCare bill through Congress and looking at it as a political win even though it means millions of people who were insured before will be without medical coverage and that the fate of anyone with a pre-existing condition's healthcare would be at the uncharitable whims of the insurance industry. It doesn't really fall in with today's theme of sexual fantasy but it will result in countless people (the Republicans who voted for the bill didn't bother to wait to find out who would be affected before pushing it through) being fucked. So enjoy your "political win," boys. By the next election cycle, you'll all be looking for a new job. I only hope you can find one that provides adequate health care.