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October 22, 2012
Objectification now! Objectification forever!
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So I was browsing Nerve again the other day and came upon the above, which
I found endlessly fascinating. “Who Would You Rather?” Get the implication?
Allow me. I believe the question, sans elision, amounts to “Given the Choice
of Two Potential Mates of Similar Backgrounds, with Whom Would You Prefer
to Engage in Penetrative Intercourse Continuing unto Climax?” Hope that
clears it up.
Yes, yes, all right, you’re not that much of an internet naïf, nor am I.
I had seen “Who’d You Rather?” postings before, being, alas, no stranger
to TMZ, but only in the form of online polls. I’d just never seen a choice between
two males broken down by a female writer before in such graphic detail,
even unto a comparison of the two subjects’, ahem, nipples. I must say
that, upon first reading, I was taken aback by Nerve contributor Lizzie
Plaugic’s frank analysis. Aback, I say!
Then I read it again and thought to myself: Dammit, this is good for America.
Nay, good for all Humanity! How can elderly males like me and my ilk (never forget The Ilk! For they
are legion!) go on doing what we do on sites like this if we don’t accept
the right of our counterparts (defined here as "horny female writers" and "not-yet-moribund persons") to engage in the very same sort of objectification?
You know, I love young people and I love the Internet. Hard to say which
I love more. I mean, if I found myself in a position to choose between
the continued existence on this Earth of one or the other, it would be
a toss-up. Having no progeny of my own, I don’t have, as they say in politics,
a dog in this fight.
If I opted to keep the Internet and doom all the young people, I suppose
I could still soldier on, self-pleasuring-wise, since the Internet would
still be there, stocked with so very many inspiring images of healthy young
people engaging in various acts of sexual congress that I have not as yet
gotten round to viewing. And I’ve just turned fifty-seven, for God’s sake,
so how many more self-pleasurings do I have left in me, anyway?
To be sure, there would be a sort of melancholy twist to the act in a world devoid of human life forms under the age of twenty-five. “Ahh, look at that lovely young Asian woman writhing atop her boyfriend! And yet, since the shooting of this opus wrapped, both of these selfless young adults have surely perished in some undefined holocaust that I myself have ordained!” I might muse inwardly before adding, “Uhhhhh-hhhyahhhh!!” as that is the customary peri-ejaculatory utterance here in the Muggins household.
Take this thought experiment the opposite direction: a world with plenty
of young people but no Internet. How many young people do you think I could
induce to perform live sex acts in front of me for free while I pleasure
myself? That, I think we could all agree, would be a tough sell. In such
a world, I might have to go back to...inducing other humans (e.g. Mrs. Muggins) to have intercourse with me. Oh, the humanity!
But I digress. I set out to state that, while I was initially taken aback
by the Nerve writer’s minute breakdown of male film stars’anatomical goodies,
I gradually came to see it as a Very Good Thing.
Here in Japan, as you may know, we have a baby bust, by which I mean not
a stern-looking, glassy-eyed marble statue of a baby, but rather a dangerous
decline in the birth rate. This has nothing to do with issues of contraception
or health care and everything to do with young people’s just not having
that much desire anymore to rub their genitals against another person’s
genitals. This is because I give them too much homework, to hear an unscientific
sampling of them tell it.
In fact, I believe that this phenomenon results from a well-intentioned
movement to shame young Japanese men out of the habit of objectifying young
women. (For their part, Japanese women are far too highly evolved to have
ever resorted to such a habit.) And I say, it’s high time we all start
objectifying one another like the mindless depositors/depositories of spermatozoa
that we all are. Failure to do so would mean nothing less than the extinction
of our species, zombie apocalypse or no.
And in order for objectification to flourish without any sense of shame,
it cannot be encouraged in just one direction. Both genders must embrace
it. If I get to sit here and draw fairly robust traffic to this site with
my online critiques of Spartacus actresses, favored adult film stars, and gone-too-soon sex goddesses, then we also need to glean various young women's thoughts on John Mayer’s
nipples. And just to keep things on the up-and-up here, please be aware
that I have no evidence whatsoever to back up any of these wild assertions.
But the whole thing just sounds truthy-ish, doesn’t it? Then again, I'm drunk.
I don’t know about you, but I’ve learned something today. And never again
will I be taken aback by a young female writer’s graphic breakdown of a
pair of young men’s nipples and what-not.
What would, however, take me aback, is if young female writers started breaking down the anatomical features of men my age. If that ever happened (visible shudder), I would be taken so far
aback as to spend the rest of my mortal days aback, doomed never to return to a-front.
I fear I would not fare well in a matchup against many of the better-known
fifty-seven-year-olds out there: Bruce Willis, Kevin Costner would drink
my milkshake for sure. I might stand a chance against Nicolas Sarkozy,
I suppose. I’d like to think I could outpoint Bill Gates on charm and shirtless
smolderiness and maybe even nipple quality, but the little weasel would
ultimately find some way to crush me as if I were Netscape. I might stand
a chance against Ashes of Steve Jobs, but where’s the fulfillment in that?
Tell you what, hypothetical female bloggers with way too much time on your
hands: If you really do have nefarious plans to start objectifying men of a certain age, pit me against this joker.
Bill it as the Battle of the Justly Obscure Online Nuisances. Mofo’s got
an eight-year youth advantage on me, but if I can’t win this one, it's
time to hang up the Rolling Fella Bomber and shuffle off to Buffalo.
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