Wednesday, September 26, 2007
Whenever I tell people I’m not married, they hardly raise an eyebrow. But when I tell them that I’ve never been married, I sometimes get a certain look. It seems that if you are a forty-six year old American male who’s never been married, you must be gay. Well just for the record – I’m not gay! And just for the sub-section of Article 9 of the record – I’m not bisexual either. Oh, I like to wear women’s underwear now and then, but it’s always the big cotton one’s and usually just on the weekends.
Just kidding…about the cotton underwear, not the gay/bisexual thing.
Actually I do like to wear panties upon occasion but only on my head. You know, the whole Abu-Graib torture kind of thing. Yeah, I’m into it. But because of my Christianity, not to mention a lack of opportunity, I haven’t been tortured in a long, loooonngggg time. Frustrating, but that’s the way God set it up.
(He’s not really into compromise on that sort of thing).
Anyway, like anyone else, marriage is available to me. That gets around the God problem. But sadly, I have rolled the dice of matrimony and, alas, came up with snake eyes. Yes, the fates have chosen for me to forgo the bli…bli…a-hem…blis…ack-aaccchhh–AAAKKKCCCHHH!!! A-HEM!!! Mmm…excuse me, (gulp), the bliss of sweet nuptial companionship. That just isn’t an option for me. Now wait a minute, there is a very good, rational and solid reason for this: The metabolic structure of the female biological dynamic.
What? That’s rational, it’s even scientific.
Okay, let me explain. See, I like big women. You know, fleshy…ample…pleasantly filled out…full figured, they call it. I’m not talking John Madden here, but admittedly, I like a woman that is what would now days be considered, well…fat.
I like a somewhat reasonable waist, as long as the chest and hips are proportionately wide. Think Jayne Mansfield, think Marilyn Monroe in Some Like It Hot, Anna Nicole Smith in her heavier days. That’s my kind of girl all the way. On top of that, I like them tall too. Amazons. You know, six-footers – when I can find ‘em.
Now you might be thinking, “So what’s the problem? I don’t know about Amazons, but there are lots of fat women out there. Just go get one.” In fact, you’re probably thinking they’d be easier to land because of all the skinny little Jennifer Love-Hewitt’s types getting all the attention. Ah, not so fast. There is a problem. Like I said before: The metabolic structure of the female biological dynamic.
Leave me color the canvas.
Let’s say I find a woman; a big one, just like I described above. One with that nice, full, curvy, succulent, meaty, delicious…um, sorry. Got carried away there for a moment. So, there she is, my size of gal. Okay. I meet her, greet her, wed her and bed her. There we are. Happy as can be. But then, lo and behold, a year or so goes by. That’s when it happens. The dreaded inevitable marital thirty! You know, that wonderful wifely weight that settles onto the frolicking female figure after that blossoming bridal body bountifully besets benevolent beauty. After that, it’s all over.
You start out with a voluptuous Venus De Milo and a year and a half later you’ve got John Travolta from Hairspray.
Okay, so you might be thinking, “Well…so go for the anorexic, waif-on-heroine type, and when the swelling reaches optimum equilibrium, voila! Perfection. It’s smooth sailing from here on out. Hold on, Houdini, won’t work. I need inspiration up front. I need my switches flipped from the start. Given that I’m shallow, base, and insensitive, I can’t get my engine revved up for the runway model/ribs and shoulder blades babe.
Nope. Wasn’t meant to be. It just ain’t there for Keckster.
Now I suppose if I could find a woman who had all the physical groceries I need (and of course, sure, personality, kindness, intelligence, and all the other useless things guys don’t give a rat’s ass about) and wouldn’t balloon up by the second anniversary, then yeah, sure. That’d be great.
Uh, no…not a chance. That animal don’t exist. You’re fighting nature, here. Female nature. She’s gonna’ want her chocolate and after that ring goes on, you ain’t gonna’ stop her. Never get between a woman and her chocolate. It’s not pretty, even if she is. We can’t defeat them, they’re far too powerful for us. Why do you think they have you, ‘kiss the bride,’ at the alter? Because Natural Selection has given women this invisible tentacle thing that comes out of their mouths into your mouth and sucks all your testosterone right out of your body into hers. There’s a reason why they name hurricanes after women. Okay, okay, some hurricanes are named after men, but if you’ll notice, all those are gay hurricanes–just watch, you can tell.
So. There you go. That’s why I’ve never been married. It’s science, really. Periodic tables, Neo-Darwinian Evolution, E=mc 2, that sort of thing. Richard Dawkins and Stephen J. Gould will back me up on this one.
I guess until they get better at gene splicing and DNA manipulation, I’ll just have keep renewing my bachelor card. Sure, it’s tough, but I can take it. I’m a man, dammit! I shall not be moved.
So whenever I contemplate not having a sweet, soft, buxom woman to touch and hold and squeeze and wrap my arms around, I just pull my panties down over my eyes and try to go to sleep.
Oh, the torture…
