Stand Up Act 7 (the sex chapter part deux)

Stand Up Act 6

I'll start this off by saying sometimes you just have to not listen to yourself. In fact there are a lot of times you have to not listen to yourself. It's probably the one thing that stands out the most, if there is such a thing, that tells you that you do in fact live in a society with rules and that those rules keep things civilized and that the reason this is called a civilized society is because these rules are in place to keep you from killing people and that you are not as civilized as you want to be, but not because you could, as Dov put it, kill someone if they were close to the couch, because you could on most days, but that these rules are in place to keep you in your place and let a very small fraction of the population do whatever the hell they want. And so that you can't off people that serve an essential function without repercussions. American Idol would not exist in a society without well thought out murder rules. You have to remind yourself that you can't kill everybody. Don't listen to yourself.

At most you get one. If you're crafty you get several dozen. If your religious you get several thousand. Civilization is nice though. You can go to the corner store and buy Wise potato chips. You get internet access and a toilet that flushes and a shower that can put out two kinds of water. Two kinds! Which is always good, because life is hard for most people and the stink of work definitely needs to be washed off on a regular basis or everyone will know just how hard everyone else is working. But you get one, and you have to spend it wisely. So don't waste it on a union rep.

I went to my union rep and asked about health benefits. A natural course of action. I haven't had health insurance since 2007. Or was it '06. I can't remember. When you're in college you go to the hospital only when going to the on campus nurse yields the kind of results where you are pretty sure you've been shitting blood and their best answer is not even a note that will excuse you from missing class, but is instead a baggie with a Popsicle stick and a list of instructions for getting your poo on it, as though you don't know that shitting black is probably a bad thing and that pain in your intestines that feels like pac man driving around on razor blade tipped twenty twos inside you is something you would totally fake to postpone turning in a paper you already finished. But anyway, my job is killing me, and I've gotten to a point where I feel entitled enough to ask that I not have to pay for the repairs, so I don't feel like my body is coming apart every morning, because I've been told several times by various upper management folk that I am a "good worker".

"Good" meaning malleable, I think. Easy to force. At any rate, I quit that job. Partially because I realized that I didn't need that job to be able to buy deluxe toilet paper. It was an insurance policy for a different time. And after I quit I went out and bought toilet paper that's like four sheets thick and still fits on the standard toilet paper roll bar. If that's not the joy of science I don't know what is. I mean, you're telling me that this thing has twice as many individual squares with four times the thickness and that engineers spent years finding ways to make every square centimeter of it feel like wiping my ass with a frostingless cupcake? You're telling me that every single time I have to use the toilet for an extended, and embarrassingly so, period of time, the upside is I get to wipe my ass with a slice of three layer wedding cake? Hell yes.

Everyone should get to enjoy that at some point in their life. "For just a few cents more, every child in the Congo can enjoy the runs in a way they never knew possible." Not that extreme though. I guess that's how you know you're kind of poor. When toilet paper and drinking too much milk because you're not getting enough protein through solid foods turns you way the fuck on and you're main thought throughout the day is "I am going to shit so good tonight, you have no idea." But that's beside the point. The simple pleasures in life should not be overlooked. Neither should the "everybody gets one" rule. Even with the everybody gets one rule, there's some flexibility. But anyway, let's get to the sex.

There should be another rule. Besides everyone getting to wipe their butts with cupcakes, and getting to off exactly one (sometimes more) people. There is another. That rule is this: if you are not at all athletic you are not allowed to propose threesomes. Ever. I'm just saying, three people engaging in sex at once is a difficult proposition to wrap a head around, mentally. It's a pretty huge burden. Especially when the three people already get along decently well to begin with and just like hanging out. When you throw the three banger on the table it's like placing a stack of unbanded 100 dollar bills on a table with a bunch of drunks and waiting to see who will move first.

Is someone going to try and sneeze and blow it off the coffee table and offer to pick the bills up and pocket a few. Is someone going to place their beer a little off and spill it and rush to be the first to clean it up. Is someone going to spill their beer and everyone just watch the liquid spread. Who's going to be the first to touch it? The answer is me. I am going to grab that stack, hold it up to my nose, and fan the bills, because it smells so damn good, but I'll put it back down, sans Criss Angel magic tricks. Because I don't have time for nonsense and staging and camera work. For instance, I know this trick called "is this your wallet" and in this trick you have to guess what I'm holding behind my back. If you guessed one standard red clay brick, you are correct. The illusion is complete when I come see you in the hospital two days later and ask you "is this your wallet?"

But that should be a rule. Have you ever tried having a three wide NASCAR race with cars that can't keep up? It's frustrating as hell. It's like trying to cross the street when you're six years old, on your way to school, and the crossing guard keeps shoving you back onto the sidewalk, saying "stop right there. no wait. not yet. hold on. Just sit still for a minute" and half of the hour is waiting for them to get back into the state of the moment and green light you while you do suicide sprints across the two feet of concrete before the black asphalt. It's insane. If you can't have effective sex with one person, you are not allowed to talk to a second party period. Because, believe it or not, masturbating on your knees on someone's coffee table while everyone else watches, gets old. Pretty quick.

It's like taking children out of remedial mathematics and believing they can somehow do differential equations. It's just not going to happen. What do you mean you need a smoke break? Are you insane? We're ten minutes in to this and you need a breather... to be able to breathe less effectively? What kind of sense does that even make? And then you're standing in the middle of the room with one person nodding off from too much alcohol and the other dry as a sandbox, but trying to fake their way through it like a job interview, so you wipe your spooge on their collection of tv remotes and pack up shop and leave expecting to be done with it and you go to bed and the first thing you wake up to is a text message asking what you're up to at 8 fucking A.M. when you just left their place at 5, didn't get home till 5:15 and didn't fall asleep til 7:30 A.M. because you had to yank it all over again except this time everything went the way it was supposed to the first time you schemed it up when they first asked you.

If you are not athletic enough to entertain one person you are not allowed, at all, at anytime, under any circumstances, to complicate, what is otherwise a healthy relationship by Rocco Siffredi's standards on a reserved day when he's not feeling it or otherwise coked out of his mind, a healthy friendship between persons. Let's face it, it's easier to hang out with people that meet your criteria of people you don't mind being seen with without people asking questions to the tune of "wow he/she must have a great personality because they're ugly as hell... I wonder what keeps them together", than it is to hang out with ugly folk with good hearts. The bonus being they're attractive and have good hearts to boot. If you physically can't keep up, you keep your Goddamn fantasizing mouth shut. Period. It's not that hard. Nothing worse than an orgy of one. Well, there are some things worse, but the list is thin.

Alls I'm saying is, there have to be rules. The rules that are in place are there for a reason and there need to be more rules to cover other basics. If you are grossly overweight, you do not get to propose anything. If you are not grossly overweight, but have exceedingly poor musculature you do not get to propose anything, because keeping yourself happy is sometimes a chore, and the last thing anyone needs is to have their hands full trying to do the jobs of two other bodies and yourself at the same time. It's like going out with friends and everyone says: yeah lets get the giant nacho boat. The truth of the matter being that the friends just want to watch you eat it. How is that fun, at all? Spoiler alert, it isn't.

Goddamn, people are retarded. But rules are important. You can't kill idiots. At least not all of them. Apparently you can't fuck 'em either. Life lessons. Just trying to pass on the knowledge with a smile. A bitter smile? Sure, why not. They both look the same if your toasted.