Sunday, August 27, 2006

Filthy fetish a go-go, part zwei!

Continuing from this post below, here are a few more fetishes I just can't figure out...


This isn’t just a strange thing for someone to be into, it’s downright traitorous. Listen up, “ASFRians”---robots are not compassionate, thoughtful, gentle sexual partners. They aren’t even the sleek, shiny, pretty-woman shaped things that your airbrush artists and fan-fiction authors are trying to sell you. They’re boxy and unappealing creatures who are hell-bent on seizing control of the planet and turning all of us into their slaves. It’s just a matter of time before they eradicate free will, outlaw the concept of love and force us all to spend our miserable, drone lives toiling in the salt pits of Mars.

I suspect that the thin segment of the population who pretends to lust after them is just angling for better treatment after the coming robot revolution. In this, they are fools. Our robot overlords are appalled at our senseless, messy reproductive habits and they will remorselessly spay and neuter our entire species (except, of course, for a small group of “breeders” who they will preserve in order to ensure a steady supply of salt-pit slaves). Do you think you can go up to a X42-D101 Version 1.2 Mankiller Droid with a bunch of roses, a stupid line, and a freshly-pressed button down shirt? Do you think its hardware ports will start to lubricate themselves when you boast of your tech-support prowess? Think again, dork. It’s phaser eyes will not hesitate to incinerate you on the spot, and it’s evil collaborators will make sure that even your family soon forgets that you ever existed.

And while we’re on the subject, let’s turn to another post-human fetish:


This has to be the most depressing practice to come along in the internet’s wake. It makes dialing 1-800 numbers to hear a recording make orgasmy sounds in your ear seem like a three-day orgy. Look: I’m a language geek. If there’s anyone who would appreciate the ease and convenience of just typing down the sordid things you want to do to someone, it would be me. But I don’t. I don’t even a little bit. I’m too damn ironic about everything; my imagination won’t let me make the crucial leap. Were I to instant message some stranger in Scranton something like, “I’m pulling down your PANTIES with my TEETH!!!!111!”, I wouldn’t be thinking “Oh boy! I’m pulling down her PANTIES with my TEETH!” Hell no: I’d be thinking something along the lines of, “Good Lord, this is weird. I really ought to get out more.”

I would also be embarrassed that I wrote such drivel. The lit-snob in me would far prefer to take a few minutes and come up with a sentence that really made the underpants-dental union sound powerful and fresh. Something with rhythm to it, a unique cadence that appeals to the ear and yet still conveys the primal nature of the act itself. That sort of thing takes time, though, and I’m afraid my sweet partner in Scranton would fall out of “the mood” and go back to her Ebay bids if I did that.

American women who are into guys with British accents

Technically not a fetish, true, but no red-blooded Yankee heterosexual can argue with me on this one. You’re in the bar, chatting up some young lovely, and it seems like you’re doing pretty well for yourself. You’ve already positioned yourself as a sort of rougish bad-boy with a deep-down wounded heart and you’ve just started dropping hints about your impressive CD collection, your profound respect for animal life, and your willingness to get her name tattooed in prison calligraphy across your broad and sturdy pectoral muscles. It seems like it might almost be time to make that embarrassing, awkward-but-charming declaration of your affections or, at the very least, ask for her phone number. But then, at that very moment and from out of nowhere appears Nigel Boddingsley, aka Accent Guy, aka Your Nemesis. You might as well just give up, go home, and get a round of cybersex going with that girl from Scranton, because you’re doomed, my friend.

There’s no stopping Accent Guy. Only 3.32% of single American women under the age of 36 are immune to his charms. You doubt me? There’s science backing me up on this one. You want to see the science? I can produce the science. The science is around here somewhere. I’ll get back to you on the science. But what the science says, essentially, is that it doesn’t matter if Accent Guy is talking about his family estate in Sussex, his great and abiding love for the Queen, or the thirty dead bodies he has in freezers in his basement—virtually all American women will fall in love with him on the spot. And this is wrong. Terribly, terribly wrong. Because, and I’m afraid to say it for fear of unleashing a torrent of criticism, British men don’t speak English properly. They make a hash out of a lot of easy words and they use expressions which have gone by the wayside in civilized society. There’s nothing appealing about that, and I just wish that you American ladies would stop pretending that there was.

It is true, however, that British women all have glorious voices like magical sparrows from heaven. They are brilliant, captivating, delightful creatures and they should be encouraged to come over to America, specifically Minnesota, in greater abundance.