When I think of honesty, I think of my mother; perhaps not the usual, for a 21 year old with his share of bad habits and regrettable behaviour, but a practise that has its rewards.
In the case of my mother and myself, being honest has rewarded the both of us with sound advice, peace of mind, and a faith in trust.
But would I advise honesty as a blanket and uniform rule for humankind? Though I would like to, I cannot say ‘yes’.
As someone has said, ‘the truth hurts’ and as Jack said ‘you can’t handle the truth’. The sad reality, I’m afraid- a good amount, if not the vast majority, can’t handle the truth- the whole truth. Why do you think court-room dramas are able to run rampant as they do?
The fact is, we lie for a reason and, often, with due cause. The comfort of truth can’t possibly overwhelm the feeling(s) of having ones feathers ruffled. We prize gratitude, approval and ‘that warm, fuzzy feeling’ over just about everything else even if it is falsified. As such, a compliment is taken as gospel and one rarely has the awareness to suspect it might’ve been a fib on the sole grounds that having someone like you feels so darn good.
Naturally, you will be largely ostracized and disregarded if you aren’t a subscriber to this unwritten doctrine of ‘harmless truths’ and you can’t realistically expect to make a lot of friends. However, the few friends you do have will have a greater admiration for you, for the sheer courage it took to confess the horrible truth.
Indeed a fair share of the lies told are those infamous ‘white lies’ and they have their purpose also. When nothing is to be gained by being honest, but something might be by being a shade insincere a white lie is not only recommended but the only real detour of real trouble…
As a beautiful girl once told me, ‘there is a difference between being honest and being mean’. Indeed.
But I, a firm advocate of the ‘playing it straight’ method must say, in the end an upfront truth is of greater benefit than a prolonged lie. Or, to put it another way and in the immortal words of John Candy;
“I’m the genuine article, what you see is what you get”.
Indeed you were John, indeed you were.
NP.
Saturday, November 27, 2010
Thursday, November 25, 2010
On Leaving Speeches and Well Beings…
Some of you surely know it well….the end of school speech. Besides all the stereotypical bullshit they will tell you one thing; they would love to see you back.
You are graduating, this is your big day, the day you’ve sweated on, the hardship is over and your about to hear everyone ruffle your hems and sing your praises, after all it was far from common ground in their day to graduate high-school…..
And what do you get? Typical, rehashed speeches and plastic goodbyes. This is most certainly not meant to offend anyone, just the graduating experience from a, somewhat, impartial observer.
They will, naturally, break out the classics like; ‘don’t go where the path may lead you, go instead where there is no path’ and ‘we wish you all the best in your future endeavours’ and ‘ we hope to see you back as active members of this community’. This translates to: don’t come back unless you have a doctorate…
Believe me, with younger brothers and most recently a girlfriend just finished school I know. They want nothing to do with you….
Of 30 or thereabouts, teachers I knew well, there is 3 I adore and will make any effort of reasonable conversation with. At post-school age you might be within your rights to call them friends, and I do so…folks I consider to have some sort of positive influence on me beyond schooling. The rest are swine that are surely glad to be rid of me and could care less if I was shooting a grand of heroin into my arm each and every day.
One truth; much as they will profess your presence is welcome on their doorstep; nothing could be further from the truth.
Unsurprisingly the principal is the key in these shenanigans, recognizing that all you have to do is show up and by such an act the magical experience of high-school, six years to which you have committed your growing from youth into man or woman as the case may be, will be relived and revived. But don’t be fooled, they want nothing more than to be rid of you and if you happen to appear on their radar again, by other means, you might be expected to be treted like a rapist or molester.
I shant be so decisive to state that if you show up with a degree that might better humankind you wont be greeted with anything but open arms, BUT, from my own experience, if you show up with anything less you will be treated as common scum….
Sad But True…
NP.
You are graduating, this is your big day, the day you’ve sweated on, the hardship is over and your about to hear everyone ruffle your hems and sing your praises, after all it was far from common ground in their day to graduate high-school…..
And what do you get? Typical, rehashed speeches and plastic goodbyes. This is most certainly not meant to offend anyone, just the graduating experience from a, somewhat, impartial observer.
They will, naturally, break out the classics like; ‘don’t go where the path may lead you, go instead where there is no path’ and ‘we wish you all the best in your future endeavours’ and ‘ we hope to see you back as active members of this community’. This translates to: don’t come back unless you have a doctorate…
Believe me, with younger brothers and most recently a girlfriend just finished school I know. They want nothing to do with you….
Of 30 or thereabouts, teachers I knew well, there is 3 I adore and will make any effort of reasonable conversation with. At post-school age you might be within your rights to call them friends, and I do so…folks I consider to have some sort of positive influence on me beyond schooling. The rest are swine that are surely glad to be rid of me and could care less if I was shooting a grand of heroin into my arm each and every day.
One truth; much as they will profess your presence is welcome on their doorstep; nothing could be further from the truth.
Unsurprisingly the principal is the key in these shenanigans, recognizing that all you have to do is show up and by such an act the magical experience of high-school, six years to which you have committed your growing from youth into man or woman as the case may be, will be relived and revived. But don’t be fooled, they want nothing more than to be rid of you and if you happen to appear on their radar again, by other means, you might be expected to be treted like a rapist or molester.
I shant be so decisive to state that if you show up with a degree that might better humankind you wont be greeted with anything but open arms, BUT, from my own experience, if you show up with anything less you will be treated as common scum….
Sad But True…
NP.
Sunday, November 21, 2010
Nature and Nurture, the Death of Independant Thought.
From day one you are cultivated as one to grow by another’s sun. It is not their fault, and certainly not yours, but a bitter tradition in human nature that is too far gone to be redeemed.
I am sure there isn’t any real doubt of it, and while some might profess nothing but love and admiration for their parents, grandparents, teachers, professors and even friends, there is an element of poison to these relationships.
In severe cases you are left with people either too stupid or too afraid to think properly for themselves and form their own opinions on matters, and in mild cases simply regular Joes with a few poignant issues they will not abandon their beliefs on.
The classic example, of course, is the Catholic church. You are baptised at birth, usually speaking, and so they give you little choice to object. The freedom of religion honest citizens get so giddy about is a sham, in so much as you are free to choose your religion, so long as it is that your parents have chosen for you.
Politics is much the same, though to a lesser extent. While it is probably fair to say that religious convictions run strong through the pristine bloodlines of this land down under, political passion or persuasion is more a case of ‘who cares’ or ‘they’re all evil’. True enough, perhaps.
What occurs is a fairly uniform avalanche effect. You, as a perhaps naïve youngster, see all the positive aspects in the lives and characters of those who guide you and so assume they must have the goods on the bigger questions also. I mean, who could disagree with those who created you, fed you, clothed you, hugged you when you might’ve needed it?
This is allowed to be commonplace in part due to homogeneous religious and political beliefs and practises in places where a similar calibre of person dwell. For instance, it would be hard to find a wealthy right-winger in my working-class hometown of Lithgow and likewise hard to find a Labour blue-collar amongst the doctors and lawyers and such of Sydney’s North Shore, where even the plumbers have private insurance and publicists.
This is detrimental, yet not likely to change. Parents are the natural pack leaders and as by our nature we have become accustomed to following the leaders, trails and rules. It takes too much effort and courage or perhaps intelligence to forge new beliefs and opinions.
Of course, indifference has well and truly set in by the time you realize this and so absurd issues like gay marriage and abortion are allowed to stand a challenge to communal sanity by the convictions of, in some cases, people who lived when gay folks were condemned to jail.
Obviously this is not everyone, but it is enough to make a real difference. It is this kind of bitter tradition that make politics and religion taboo subjects for most dinner time conversation, but don’t let them fool you, you can disagree with your parents, anyone or everyone and still maintain friends and family, provided your friends and family aren’t one track minded, stubborn, ignorant or poor losers.
The wonderful British poet, Phillip Larkin wrote a poem on, more or less, this exact subject, it is below…
Phillip Larkin, This Be The Verse.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Though don’t be too hard on them, their parents left them with similar qualms…
NP.
I am sure there isn’t any real doubt of it, and while some might profess nothing but love and admiration for their parents, grandparents, teachers, professors and even friends, there is an element of poison to these relationships.
In severe cases you are left with people either too stupid or too afraid to think properly for themselves and form their own opinions on matters, and in mild cases simply regular Joes with a few poignant issues they will not abandon their beliefs on.
The classic example, of course, is the Catholic church. You are baptised at birth, usually speaking, and so they give you little choice to object. The freedom of religion honest citizens get so giddy about is a sham, in so much as you are free to choose your religion, so long as it is that your parents have chosen for you.
Politics is much the same, though to a lesser extent. While it is probably fair to say that religious convictions run strong through the pristine bloodlines of this land down under, political passion or persuasion is more a case of ‘who cares’ or ‘they’re all evil’. True enough, perhaps.
What occurs is a fairly uniform avalanche effect. You, as a perhaps naïve youngster, see all the positive aspects in the lives and characters of those who guide you and so assume they must have the goods on the bigger questions also. I mean, who could disagree with those who created you, fed you, clothed you, hugged you when you might’ve needed it?
This is allowed to be commonplace in part due to homogeneous religious and political beliefs and practises in places where a similar calibre of person dwell. For instance, it would be hard to find a wealthy right-winger in my working-class hometown of Lithgow and likewise hard to find a Labour blue-collar amongst the doctors and lawyers and such of Sydney’s North Shore, where even the plumbers have private insurance and publicists.
This is detrimental, yet not likely to change. Parents are the natural pack leaders and as by our nature we have become accustomed to following the leaders, trails and rules. It takes too much effort and courage or perhaps intelligence to forge new beliefs and opinions.
Of course, indifference has well and truly set in by the time you realize this and so absurd issues like gay marriage and abortion are allowed to stand a challenge to communal sanity by the convictions of, in some cases, people who lived when gay folks were condemned to jail.
Obviously this is not everyone, but it is enough to make a real difference. It is this kind of bitter tradition that make politics and religion taboo subjects for most dinner time conversation, but don’t let them fool you, you can disagree with your parents, anyone or everyone and still maintain friends and family, provided your friends and family aren’t one track minded, stubborn, ignorant or poor losers.
The wonderful British poet, Phillip Larkin wrote a poem on, more or less, this exact subject, it is below…
Phillip Larkin, This Be The Verse.
They fuck you up, your mum and dad.
They may not mean to, but they do.
They fill you with the faults they had
And add some extra, just for you.
But they were fucked up in their turn
By fools in old-style hats and coats,
Who half the time were soppy-stern
And half at one another's throats.
Man hands on misery to man.
It deepens like a coastal shelf.
Get out as early as you can,
And don't have any kids yourself.
Though don’t be too hard on them, their parents left them with similar qualms…
NP.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
On Accents and Perceptions.
Anyone who knows me will know I speak with something of an American/Canadian tone. While distinguishable to those hailing from those countries, to your dinky Aussie I am either American or someone adopting the speech pattern for social gain.
I have had many an argument in pubs across NSW on this issue, with most thinking I am in fact consciously talking as I do to be considered hip, cool, happening or exotic.
Of course, as anyone with half a brain would realise, with the exception of music, television, fast food and in times of war, Americanisms aren’t in vogue and never really have been in the great sun burnt country.
It is lost on them that an Australian wouldn’t adopt a US accent in order to be considered cool, because it isn’t cool.
Though if it were I could hardly be considered a trendsetter, you need only a glance at my day wear to know that (though I think business shirts and board shorts will take off pretty soon), so if I were to adopt the accent for the reasons I am accused of, wouldn’t it make sense to overhaul the rest of myself to match; especially in the key areas where true coolness is first and foremost registered and judged.
The truth is the speech is a result of too many movies, television and reciting clever dialogue from pornos in my underwear alone. Glamorous hey! Only someone who was trying to be as cool as can be would practice such activities.
Now though, I have given up on convincing people I am from this land. If anyone asks from here on, this is my story:
I was born in Utah to a polygamist father and have 31 brothers, sisters and halves. Two of our mothers were killed by a mob of Latter Day Saints angry that they were not practising the now proper Mormon way and in an effort to ensure his children’s safety sent the mothers and their respective children to different countries all over the globe. Some went to NZ, some up to Canada, some were trucked into South America and my particular arm came here.
Sadly for the reputation of your average barfly’s intelligence, a story such as this would usually go by without so much as a whisper.
NP.
I have had many an argument in pubs across NSW on this issue, with most thinking I am in fact consciously talking as I do to be considered hip, cool, happening or exotic.
Of course, as anyone with half a brain would realise, with the exception of music, television, fast food and in times of war, Americanisms aren’t in vogue and never really have been in the great sun burnt country.
It is lost on them that an Australian wouldn’t adopt a US accent in order to be considered cool, because it isn’t cool.
Though if it were I could hardly be considered a trendsetter, you need only a glance at my day wear to know that (though I think business shirts and board shorts will take off pretty soon), so if I were to adopt the accent for the reasons I am accused of, wouldn’t it make sense to overhaul the rest of myself to match; especially in the key areas where true coolness is first and foremost registered and judged.
The truth is the speech is a result of too many movies, television and reciting clever dialogue from pornos in my underwear alone. Glamorous hey! Only someone who was trying to be as cool as can be would practice such activities.
Now though, I have given up on convincing people I am from this land. If anyone asks from here on, this is my story:
I was born in Utah to a polygamist father and have 31 brothers, sisters and halves. Two of our mothers were killed by a mob of Latter Day Saints angry that they were not practising the now proper Mormon way and in an effort to ensure his children’s safety sent the mothers and their respective children to different countries all over the globe. Some went to NZ, some up to Canada, some were trucked into South America and my particular arm came here.
Sadly for the reputation of your average barfly’s intelligence, a story such as this would usually go by without so much as a whisper.
NP.
Sunday, October 24, 2010
NSW, Nannied State...PT 1.
It seems impossible, nowadays, to wipe your arse without someone from the fine NSW police force wanting to stick their big snout in and ensure you’re doing it ‘by the book’.
Gone are the days when a copper might let you off with a warning, far the opposite, they are actively looking to find a crime, even in the absence of one and seem completely frustrated when they find you to be a responsible, law abiding citizen.
I remember a story an uncle told me about the early 80s. So it goes that he made the drive from Sydney to Melbourne, in a mini and blind drunk. But, he assured me, “you could do that in those days”.
Right he was, you could. Don’t let it be said I am an advocate for drunk driving, simply using the story to illustrate a point; that if you could get away with an 8 hour high-speed drive then you could certainly avoid the mundane, unwarranted and unnecessary harassment of the boys in blue if you, as I am any time it happens, within the bounds of the law.
I remember one instance I was low on fuel and had a big drive the next day. The petrol station in my town was closed so, with the little bowser flashing, we made the tedious and risky drive to Orange, some 27 kms away.
In a small town along the way there were around 12 police cars lining either side of the narrow road. As the bank was full I didn’t get ushered in and thought id made it through by some miracle for one baring the dreaded red P plate.
Of course a sleek red highway patrol car was flashing its lights to me by the time id reached the towns limit. I pulled over and the bull headed officer approached.
Now, keep in mind I was 17 at this time. He asked me to get out of the car and show my license and pink slip. I did so and it seemed he wanted to have me out of the way, to inspect the car for the bounty of heroin I might be chartering.
With the breath test out of the way, the fine officer seemed disgruntled that there was no dirt on me. He dug further. Asking me about my drug past, as a consequence of the apparent drug raid they were doing on the district.
Had I smoked pot?
Not in around 6 years.
Pills?
Nope.
Speed?
Nope.
Then he took a shot in the dark.
Heroin?
No, I laughed.
Of course, by then I was only being half honest, but what did he expect.
Do you do heroin or meth?
Why yes officer, I have been up 72 hours and you might want to check my boot as I have around 14 kg, give or take, of fine uncut China White in there.
Gimme a fucking break.
It wasn’t the first time it has happened and it certainly won’t be the last, but finally out of options he let me go.
I think the problem is inadequate training and a fair whack of stupidity, but what can be done, after all, they run the show…
This won’t be the last of it, I shall blog to this effect a few more times in the coming weeks.
Gone are the days when a copper might let you off with a warning, far the opposite, they are actively looking to find a crime, even in the absence of one and seem completely frustrated when they find you to be a responsible, law abiding citizen.
I remember a story an uncle told me about the early 80s. So it goes that he made the drive from Sydney to Melbourne, in a mini and blind drunk. But, he assured me, “you could do that in those days”.
Right he was, you could. Don’t let it be said I am an advocate for drunk driving, simply using the story to illustrate a point; that if you could get away with an 8 hour high-speed drive then you could certainly avoid the mundane, unwarranted and unnecessary harassment of the boys in blue if you, as I am any time it happens, within the bounds of the law.
I remember one instance I was low on fuel and had a big drive the next day. The petrol station in my town was closed so, with the little bowser flashing, we made the tedious and risky drive to Orange, some 27 kms away.
In a small town along the way there were around 12 police cars lining either side of the narrow road. As the bank was full I didn’t get ushered in and thought id made it through by some miracle for one baring the dreaded red P plate.
Of course a sleek red highway patrol car was flashing its lights to me by the time id reached the towns limit. I pulled over and the bull headed officer approached.
Now, keep in mind I was 17 at this time. He asked me to get out of the car and show my license and pink slip. I did so and it seemed he wanted to have me out of the way, to inspect the car for the bounty of heroin I might be chartering.
With the breath test out of the way, the fine officer seemed disgruntled that there was no dirt on me. He dug further. Asking me about my drug past, as a consequence of the apparent drug raid they were doing on the district.
Had I smoked pot?
Not in around 6 years.
Pills?
Nope.
Speed?
Nope.
Then he took a shot in the dark.
Heroin?
No, I laughed.
Of course, by then I was only being half honest, but what did he expect.
Do you do heroin or meth?
Why yes officer, I have been up 72 hours and you might want to check my boot as I have around 14 kg, give or take, of fine uncut China White in there.
Gimme a fucking break.
It wasn’t the first time it has happened and it certainly won’t be the last, but finally out of options he let me go.
I think the problem is inadequate training and a fair whack of stupidity, but what can be done, after all, they run the show…
This won’t be the last of it, I shall blog to this effect a few more times in the coming weeks.
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
On Ads, Abs, Flab and Fads.
A note on the popular media.
I know its not just me. You switch on the television for a relaxing afternoon of mindless programming, and are struck, each few minutes with one of a few ads. They are, roughly, life insurance, dieting supplements or systems, exercise equipment or anti-wrinkle treatments.
So, as a textbook application of audience considered marketing, you wind up thinking about what a fat, ugly piece of shit you are and how death is just around the corner.
It is perhaps a natural choice for advertisers to peddle this kind of thing to those who watch television and not, say, in gyms or health food stores. But come the fuck on!
I can understand one life-insurance ad, but having the constant thought of death circling you does not inspire someone, especially someone in their twenties, to go out and consider their responsibility so much as it inspires deep depression and reflection on a common truth that would be more comfortable in a neglected corner of one’s brain. Try that, as a side dish, with your morning regimen of the Flintstones.
The other thing is the ridiculousness of these ads; the ab-tronic, ab-swing, ab-circle, ab-longue absolutely ridiculous. When did we get concerned that our abs are the problem, and not say, our Dominoes or KFC (Which has the added ridiculous notion in a recent campaign, that it has the sterling seal of approval from Olympic athletes, if you eat KFC you’re more likely to compete for a bed in hospital than at the Olympic Games).
It’s a cause and effect situation, have your pizza and eat it too, have your ab wonder machine, and hopefully use it too. Basically, dear citizens, if you get nice and fat on wonderful, cheap and convenient fast food, you might also expect to have washboard chests and tight arses. There is something out there for everyone.
The anti-wrinkle ads also border on the absurd. One is for a fine product called ”Skin venom”, now, it could be me, but why on earth would I regularly apply something with venom in its title.
Of course there is a smattering of baldness ads too, after all who doesn’t want to look in their twenties all the time? The fact that none of this shit has been credited as working by anyone who means anything, and it is insanely expensive shouldn’t matter. Who can put a price on eternal youth?
The fact is, these ads are unfounded, they are constant and all seem to be pushing the idea that you are not good as you are. The generation that holds any stock in them is the generation who set themselves up for years of trying to swim upstream against aging and better themselves consistently. Why can’t anyone be happy as themselves? Why do we all need these crazy products to perfect everything about ourselves? To make the standards ever higher.
Of course, while annoying, there is nothing I can do about it. Maybe people don’t care as much as I did, but to them I ask:
Where did all the funny beer ads go?
I know its not just me. You switch on the television for a relaxing afternoon of mindless programming, and are struck, each few minutes with one of a few ads. They are, roughly, life insurance, dieting supplements or systems, exercise equipment or anti-wrinkle treatments.
So, as a textbook application of audience considered marketing, you wind up thinking about what a fat, ugly piece of shit you are and how death is just around the corner.
It is perhaps a natural choice for advertisers to peddle this kind of thing to those who watch television and not, say, in gyms or health food stores. But come the fuck on!
I can understand one life-insurance ad, but having the constant thought of death circling you does not inspire someone, especially someone in their twenties, to go out and consider their responsibility so much as it inspires deep depression and reflection on a common truth that would be more comfortable in a neglected corner of one’s brain. Try that, as a side dish, with your morning regimen of the Flintstones.
The other thing is the ridiculousness of these ads; the ab-tronic, ab-swing, ab-circle, ab-longue absolutely ridiculous. When did we get concerned that our abs are the problem, and not say, our Dominoes or KFC (Which has the added ridiculous notion in a recent campaign, that it has the sterling seal of approval from Olympic athletes, if you eat KFC you’re more likely to compete for a bed in hospital than at the Olympic Games).
It’s a cause and effect situation, have your pizza and eat it too, have your ab wonder machine, and hopefully use it too. Basically, dear citizens, if you get nice and fat on wonderful, cheap and convenient fast food, you might also expect to have washboard chests and tight arses. There is something out there for everyone.
The anti-wrinkle ads also border on the absurd. One is for a fine product called ”Skin venom”, now, it could be me, but why on earth would I regularly apply something with venom in its title.
Of course there is a smattering of baldness ads too, after all who doesn’t want to look in their twenties all the time? The fact that none of this shit has been credited as working by anyone who means anything, and it is insanely expensive shouldn’t matter. Who can put a price on eternal youth?
The fact is, these ads are unfounded, they are constant and all seem to be pushing the idea that you are not good as you are. The generation that holds any stock in them is the generation who set themselves up for years of trying to swim upstream against aging and better themselves consistently. Why can’t anyone be happy as themselves? Why do we all need these crazy products to perfect everything about ourselves? To make the standards ever higher.
Of course, while annoying, there is nothing I can do about it. Maybe people don’t care as much as I did, but to them I ask:
Where did all the funny beer ads go?
Monday, October 11, 2010
Rating Cartoon Women.
It seems at least somewhat likely that most young men around my age, the “Cartoon Age”, have at some point wished the lustful chicks in cartoons were real.
It seems lust for these animated women stems from a few things:
1.They’re always there- Lois never goes to work (or if she does we go with her) , Marge never hits the town or a holiday spot without us. They are on the television most days for our viewing pleasure, and over an average childhood we rack up countless hours of quality time with them.
2. They’re all the same- cartoon wives and mothers never have bad hair days, never get fat, always seem to be made up. They’re perfectly the same down to the outfits.
If you’re as sexually repressed as I then these fictitious women have no doubt become some kind of weird fantasy to you. So, if they made the jump to the world of flesh and bone, who would be the best to court? I have run through a quick list of pros and cons for each of them as a potential mate, partner and kindred soul.
Lois Griffin:
Pros: Lois is probably the most physically attractive of the bunch, also the kinkiest and overtly sexual, is kind of a cheerleader who certainly knows how to party. Despite this she does hold a certain caring and sensible nature.
Cons: That voice is the worst, really nagging and can be kind of a bitch.
Peggy Hill:
Pros: There aren’t many. However, she is smart, financially sensible and independent.
Cons: Fairly unattractive, preachy, nagging, egotistical and overly difficult to get along with.
Leela and Amy:
Pros: Leela is basically super-hot, even for a one eyed chick. Amy is likewise fairly hot and has a schoolgirl way about her. Plus they’re from the future, which is just awesome.
Cons: Leela is a tad muscular, could probably beat the shit out of you, has a bad attitude. Amy is annoyingly stupid.
Marge Simpson:
Pros: By far the cartoon queen. A great mother, hot with some kind of sex appeal, unique hairdo, a good wife, insanely tolerant who will always play the Danny Glover to your Mel Gibson (Assuming they were gay and MG didn’t hate black guys).
Cons: Really badgering, kind of boring and has a succession of crazy childhood dreams.
I suppose the only logical conclusion is that Marge would win on the wife and companion fronts, Lois, Leila and Amy would be sexually fulfilling and Peggy is just plain bad. But make up your own mind….
NP.
It seems lust for these animated women stems from a few things:
1.They’re always there- Lois never goes to work (or if she does we go with her) , Marge never hits the town or a holiday spot without us. They are on the television most days for our viewing pleasure, and over an average childhood we rack up countless hours of quality time with them.
2. They’re all the same- cartoon wives and mothers never have bad hair days, never get fat, always seem to be made up. They’re perfectly the same down to the outfits.
If you’re as sexually repressed as I then these fictitious women have no doubt become some kind of weird fantasy to you. So, if they made the jump to the world of flesh and bone, who would be the best to court? I have run through a quick list of pros and cons for each of them as a potential mate, partner and kindred soul.
Lois Griffin:
Pros: Lois is probably the most physically attractive of the bunch, also the kinkiest and overtly sexual, is kind of a cheerleader who certainly knows how to party. Despite this she does hold a certain caring and sensible nature.
Cons: That voice is the worst, really nagging and can be kind of a bitch.
Peggy Hill:
Pros: There aren’t many. However, she is smart, financially sensible and independent.
Cons: Fairly unattractive, preachy, nagging, egotistical and overly difficult to get along with.
Leela and Amy:
Pros: Leela is basically super-hot, even for a one eyed chick. Amy is likewise fairly hot and has a schoolgirl way about her. Plus they’re from the future, which is just awesome.
Cons: Leela is a tad muscular, could probably beat the shit out of you, has a bad attitude. Amy is annoyingly stupid.
Marge Simpson:
Pros: By far the cartoon queen. A great mother, hot with some kind of sex appeal, unique hairdo, a good wife, insanely tolerant who will always play the Danny Glover to your Mel Gibson (Assuming they were gay and MG didn’t hate black guys).
Cons: Really badgering, kind of boring and has a succession of crazy childhood dreams.
I suppose the only logical conclusion is that Marge would win on the wife and companion fronts, Lois, Leila and Amy would be sexually fulfilling and Peggy is just plain bad. But make up your own mind….
NP.
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