Dateland: Stupid World


I am being forced to write this week’s column on a PC because my Mac crashed earlier today. This has delighted my company’s crack(head) tech team who hates me because I routinely refer to them as our crack(head) tech team, and they have exacted their revenge by making me work on an ancient PC while awaiting a new Apple. This computer is so old and crusty that I have to punch the keyboard with such force that it sounds like a goat is trying to type with its hooves.

I don’t like writing my column when I’m in a bad mood, but, let’s face it, isn’t everyone in a lousy mood these days? I’m the biggest optimist in the world and, yet, even I can’t escape the fact that everything sucks. The economy is in a free-fall; global warming keeps getting worse and now we’ve got all these homeless polar bears to deal with; Greece has got a gun and is threatening to kill Europe; George Bush is living in a posh subdivision instead of languishing in a cell awaiting trial at The Hague for war crimes; and my girlfriend still refuses to have scissor sex with me.

Regular readers of this column (are there any?) know that I’m fascinated by scissor sex. I first heard it mentioned on the inane but highly addictive Showtime series “The Real L Word.” Initially, I thought the producers of the show were having a bit of fun by having the characters mention scissor sex at every opportunity and even showing it in action between two girls who were drunk out of their minds and clearly not enjoying themselves.

When I suggested to my girlfriend that we give it a try, she refused, citing our rapidly advancing age and fragile hips. Plus, she said, there’s no such thing as scissor sex. It’s simply a contrivance of the ridiculous “The Real L Word” and it’s bad enough that we feel compelled to watch the show, let alone allow the producers to trick us into strange sex positions.

But after questioning several friends over the course of many dinner parties, I have determined that scissor sex is, in fact, real. So, I once again demanded it, and was once again summarily dismissed.

“Why can’t we try it?” I whined.

“Because it’s stupid,” she said.

“But we do a lot of things much stupider than this,” I countered, and then listed the many stupid things we had done just that day.

“We can have scissor sex if you agree to get a hot tub for the deck,” she responded. And so I did!

The hot tub is without question the best thing we have ever wasted money on. We practically live in it. We’ve developed permanently pruned skin and haystack-dry hair, but we don’t give a damn. We’ve played cards in it, hosted entire cocktail parties from it, and peeled vegetables for dinner while lounging in it. The only thing we haven’t done is have scissor sex in it.

Last night I demanded that she live up to her end of the bargain. “I want scissor sex, now!” I yelled.

“You’re drunk!” she responded.

“Well, yes, but what does that have to do with anything?”

“I was just trying to change the subject,” she conceded pouring me another glass of wine. “We are not having scissor sex because, as I’ve told you countless times, it’s stupid.”

“But I can’t think of one element of life these days that isn’t stupid,” I said. And I got weepy thinking of the homeless polar bears.

To soothe me, she initiated regular sex, which is pretty awesome in a hot tub. And, for a moment, I felt a little better about the world.

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