Category Archives: Weird shit

Joyless Stuff

bog-brush

One of the many gifts of the internet is the constant stream of new crazes that make their way into our homes, whether it be through news or social media. Pretty much every day there’s something you can join in. Yesterday I saw “extreme phone pinching” – people posting photos of themselves holding their phones between thumb and forefinger over places that it would be highly inadvisable to drop a phone. Like a deep hole. Or a toilet. The risk/reward quotient of this seems a little out of balance – loss of a phone that seems to be (at least for these people) a gateway to their whole sense of self-worth, versus a photo that someone might “like” tomorrow. It’s beyond stupid, and one can only anticipate the evolution of this fad, until we get a new series of “my penis dangling over the spinning blades of the blender” photos.

Some crazes, however, are more durable, providing far greater opportunity for the participant to spend money and waste time, while endlessly immersing themselves in social media contacts with like-minded devotees. Decluttering is one such activity – it has gone beyond a generic desire to throw shit away, to become a “lifestyle”, with its own guru, a brand name, and books you can buy to help you transform your meaningless existence and find inner peace. The KonMari method is one popular approach, and an article I failed to avoid reading today described how one should review one’s possessions and keep only those things that bring “joy”.

Wow. Joy. That’s a high bar. I mean, I don’t know about you, but I can pretty much walk through my whole house and pick up everything I own in turn, and I doubt there’s a single thing in there that would bring me “joy”. It could be because I have a sad, meaningless existence, and am in desperate need of decluttering, but I suspect that’s not the case. I don’t have any desire to self-harm; I don’t find myself weeping uncontrollably for no reason as I sit, rocking back and forth, on the stairs; I certainly appear to spend way too much time laughing and enjoying myself for that to be the case. But none of the crap I own brings me joy.

Maybe there’s nothing wrong with that. Here’s a thought – how much joy can one expect to receive from owning a toilet brush? Not a polished ivory, diamond-studded Kardashian model, just a simple plastic bog brush. Couple of dollars from WalMart. Not exactly a needle-mover on the joy scale. This morning, however, partly as a result of Bison Daughter’s bread and cake making day yesterday, I happened to, how do I put this delicately, manage to block the toilet. Not “plunger and plumber” block, just a giant U-shaped sausage stuck in the bottom of the bowl, receiving the flush like a dead seal, impervious to pressure. There was the plastic brush – one small push and everything went on its way. Joy? Not really. But relative to the “no brush” alternative, it was a pretty good option. Maybe a toilet brush doesn’t bring joy, but having to break up a turd with your fingers would be about the opposite of joy.

And that, I would suggest, is the reason for most of the stuff we have in our homes that would otherwise be called clutter. It brings us no joy for 364 days of the year, and then on one day we need it. I get no joy from a box of assorted screws and nails, at least until I need one and can pick one out rather than drive fifteen minutes to the hardware store, buy a packet, drive home, find out they’re the wrong ones, swear, drive back, wait in line to return them, buy another packet and drive home again. I don’t need dried milk, until I run out of milk, and I don’t need my electric pump until my tire goes flat.

Stuff is a bit like insurance. It’s a complete waste of money, until you need it, and then you’re glad you have it. The purpose of stuff is not so much to bring joy as to avoid misery, or at least irritation and minor unhappiness. Arranging stuff makes sense, if it makes you happier, but not if it’s so you can post a picture on Facebook and show off to your friends in the KonMari club. And certainly not if you become some weird, nervous, OCD bitch, constantly fretting that someone left a book out.

Do I have shit in my house that I could throw away? Sure. And I will, when I move house. Until then it can stay down in the basement and give the spiders something to play with. Because, when you think about it, even arachnids deserve some joy in their lives.

Handy Job


I’m not quite sure how the subject came up. There we were, sitting in a cozy restaurant in Belgium, with low ceilings and candlelight, enjoying one of those meals that you just don’t get in St.Louis. It was a place run by a husband and wife; he cooked while she ran the front of the house. There was no menu – when we arrived she just explained what they were going to make for us and checked that everything would be OK. (Presumably they’ll make accommodations if something would cause you to heave.) Outside the rain fell steadily, and through it, illuminated by evening streetlamps, we could pick out the classic architecture of the town square.

Early on the conversation was polite but hesitant; this was a business dinner, with seven or eight of us gathered. Gradually the conversation shifted, however, and I found myself relating the story of a television program I saw many years ago in which zookeepers were harvesting semen from a gorilla in captivity. I pointed out that the process involved sedating the gorilla and then inserting a large stainless steel vibrator in its anus to cause ejaculation. Two things struck me: firstly, a gorilla has a really tiny dick considering the rest of its physiology; secondly, there didn’t appear to be much in the process for the gorilla, who was presumably going to wake up with a hangover, a sore arse and an empty sac. None of us want that to happen, do we? What do you think goes through the poor beast’s mind after that? “Jesus, I must have hit the fermented bamboo juice a bit hard last night. What the hell’s wrong with my arse? Oh fuck! Who was I with? Oh man, does that mean I’m gay now? I hope no video ends up on YouTube.”

I only verbalized the first part of that story in the restaurant, not the imagined thoughts of the awakening primate, but you have to be careful with stories like that because if you misjudge the mood of the group you can suddenly end up with an awkward silence, and everyone studying the menu intently. Since there was no menu in this place we would have been screwed. Fortunately my counterpart came back with an even better story.

Apparently his company used to be in the pig genetics business. Like most industrialized companies they had a very active health and safety program, involving sharing learnings and improvements between different sites that would make the workplace safer. In one instance there had been a problem with the people who had to harvest the sperm from the hogs ending up with carpal tunnel syndrome, which had resulted in the development of a new tool or gadget to help them avoid this. Carpal tunnel? You mean they did it by hand?

Harvesting sperm sounds like it’s a noble and scientifically justified endeavor, but at the end of the day you know that you’re basically a pig-wanker. How do you live with yourself if your job involves giving hand relief to swine on a daily basis? What do you say when your kid asks what you did today? More to the point, what’s the going rate for jerking off a hog? Because I have to believe that there would be more money in pulling off people, and probably less chance of being trampled in the mud while you’re doing it.

Back in the restaurant, three excellent courses were followed by a fine dessert. Although the rain was still falling when we eventually stepped out into the cobbled street to make our way back to the car park, life didn’t seem too bad. The weekend was coming, and there is, at present, no prospect that I will have to wank off any pigs in my immediate future. And I’m not hung like a gorilla either. Happy days!

Copyright © 2009 Edward Bison

Play By The Rules


Who makes up the rules of porn, that’s what I want to know. I’ve never actually watched porn myself, you understand, but I heard all about it from a man I never met before, in a pub that I can’t remember the name of, and there are very definitely rules. It seems a bit odd, in a medium like that, to have such rigid formulae for the product, especially since most people never get past the first ten minutes. Let’s face it, after that you could pretty much show anything and no-one would notice. They’re all too busy trying to wipe the spooge off the arm of the La-Z-Boy. Let’s be clear about this – people only watch porn in order to masturbate. That’s a perfectly understandable thing; what would clearly not make any sense whatsoever would be watching it for any other reason. Never trust any bloke who says he only watches porn “for a laugh” – he’s a liar. You should probably think twice about shaking his hand, too.

So, what’s with the rigid adherence to the principles of pornographic video then? Let’s start with the end: why is it so important that we see the bloke blow his muck all over his female co-star? (I’m assuming this isn’t girl-on-girl porn, of course, which I have to say is always preferred by the man in the pub on the simple basis that strange tattooed blokes and stray wieners do not enrich the viewing experience.) I get that this was probably a sign of “genuine-ness” back in the day when a lot of this stuff was faked, but in the twenty-first century, where you can instantaneously download anything you want, and many things you don’t, up to and including a man fucking a chicken, it hardly seems necessary to prove that the bloke really emptied his tanks.

That’s not the end, though. The girl then has to – how do I put this tactfully? – lick the end clean, all the while (and this appears to be very important) looking like this is the most fun she’s ever had, and a better taste experience than Haagen-Dasz. Why? In a creative porn world we would see all manner of weird things like this, but why does my mate in the pub see the same cliches played over and over again? I’m sure sociologists would have plenty of explanations as to why these scenes exist, why they’re motifs for all sorts of hidden psychological triggers, such as the desire for a totally submissive partner, but I’ve never really trusted sociologists, especially ones who could watch porn purely for research. I get the impression those fuckers just make stuff up as they go along.

The other thing that aways forms an integral part of the action is the reverse cowgirl shot, where the woman sits astride the bloke, facing away from him, and bounces up and down on his dick. Now I don’t know about you, but my mate down the pub can’t watch this shot without wondering is she’s going to break it off at any moment, seeing as how she’s riding it like a sodding spacehopper (UK cultural reference only, I’m afraid). This is especially the case in the reverse anal cowgirl. Don’t make the mistake of thinking those things are unbreakable, even fortified with the horse-sized dose of Viagra that I have to assume is standard preparation for the modern-day porn stud. (Why leave wood to chance?)

The female center of attention is very likely to be a slightly rough looking bird, with large plastic breasts, who for some unaccountable reason will get totally naked in five seconds but will never take her shoes off. So there’s some club-bouncer type dressed as a plumber shooting his wad on her artificial chest while she simultaneously moans, grins and licks his bell-end. There’s no plot, no eroticism and the highlight is her bouncing up and down on his knob with her stilettos in the air and him quietly praying that she doesn’t snap his love-truncheon clean off.

My main question is this: who buys porn anymore? There’s apparently a huge fucking industry centered in the San Fernando valley turning this stuff out, and they even have their own awards ceremony (best anal newcomer, anyone?). Who’s the customer? It’s clearly not me, and I’m assuming it’s not you either. Porn movies are something out of the seventies, like digital watches or G-Plan furniture. They’re something you seek out when you’re fourteen and one of your mates has one that his older brother brought back from Amsterdam. They’re a rite of passage, a necessary phase, but you don’t want to be one of those sad wankers who’s actually ordering the stuff and paying for it. If you get to the point where you actually know the actors by name it’s time to hang it up, mate.

I’ll probably never know the answer. You can’t ask the bloke in the pub because blokes don’t talk about porn any more than they talk about their feelings, or a scrotal infection. It’s just one of life’s many mysteries, like why it is that the La-Z-Boy in your cheap hotel room has that strange crusty texture…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

We All Have Our Cross To Bear

While I was on vacation I had to take time out for an investor teleconference, so my assistant helpfully booked me a room with a speakerphone at a nearby La Quinta hotel (since the beach house had no phone at all and my cell coverage could best be described as somewhere between “spotty” and “non-fucking-existent”). So I rolled up there Monday morning in my little silver rental car and got set up in the room. Everything went fine, except that the room at my end smelled like the scene of a crime involving sex with fish, and the room at the other end apparently couldn’t hear much of what I was saying. I therefore was able subsequently to claim that it was all brilliant. So after an hour, my job done, I filled my pockets with free hotel candy (it was in the dish and I wanted my money’s worth), paid the bill and headed out to my car.

I had checked out the hotel the night before, since it was close to the gym I had found, and nothing spells “fuck up” quite so much as finding out five minutes before you’re due to speak to a crowd of assembled investors that the directions you received and trusted don’t in fact take you to the hotel at all, but to a strip bar or Mexican restaurant. This is what they sometimes describe as a “career limiting move”. Anyway, that’s not the point. What is, is that when I got to the hotel there was a bloke wheeling his luggage into the foyer on one of those gigantic hotel luggage things which have a four foot square wheeled base and metal bars on two sides reaching up about six or seven feet. And this plonker had it completely full, to the point that he was almost incapable of manoeuvring it through the door.

When I arrived at the hotel the following day, for my teleconference, I watched another family pushing one of these things to check out, and it too was full with bags, cases and board games. And when I left there was yet another bloke emptying what seemed like the entire contents of a minivan into the same wheeled luggage carrier, stacked so high that bags were falling off six feet to the ground.

Whatever happened to traveling light? I know we had it easy because there was a washing machine in our place but we packed for the week in two wheeled carry-on bags, for three people. And this included my gratuitous Mr Bison t-shirt. (One day someone is going to stop me in an airport, I just know it.) People who cannot pack a reasonable quantity of shit for a trip should be separated from the line at airports and humanely destroyed, before they can attempt to cram some blatantly oversized holdall into the overhead bin, get it stuck, remove it, remove nineteen pairs of underpants, zip it up, push it back into the bin, remove it again, etc etc, until the flight attendant pulls her head out of her arse and puts a stop to the whole ridiculous charade. But that’s just my opinion…

We did encounter one bloke in Oregon who clearly knew how to pack light. He was walking up the side of the highway with a cross. And nothing else. It was a large wooden cross and he was dragging it, presumably in some fervent display of Christian fortitude. He had however exhibited foresight apparently lacking in our savior, in that he had attached a wheel to the bottom so that he didn’t have to “drag” it so much as “put it on his shoulder and wheel it”. The answer to the question “What Would Jesus Do?” appears therefore to be “Remember To Put A Wheel On The Sodding Cross”. Although this example was a pretty big cross it wouldn’t meet what I would assume would be “building code” for a cross expected to hold a fully grown man in his death throes. (They were very capable engineers, those Romans.) It was more of an Ikea cross – good value but not built to last and probably prone to split if you attempted to actually nail anyone to it. Does this count? Shouldn’t it have to be a “standard issue” full-scale Roman crucifixion device?

Anyway, my principal concern was not for the quality or durability of the cross. (He didn’t seem to make much progress in any case – we saw the thing two days later about a mile up the road and the bloke was nowhere in sight.) I was fully expecting, however, that come time to fly back to St.Louis I would find the twat in question vainly attempting to stuff his wheeled cross into the overhead bin on my plane. That’s the kind of people I meet…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Take A Seat

It must be a slow news day again because the Associated Press today reported that an Anaheim man just set a Guinness World Record for “Most Seats Sat in 48 Hours” by sitting in 39,250 seats. He did this by showing up at a stadium and, well, just sitting in one seat after another. He’s continuing with the effort, mind you, with the goal of sitting in each of the stadium’s 92,542 seats by the end of the week.

Who the fuck cares? It’s not as though this twat achieved anything that any other person couldn’t have done, had they been inclined to show up at an empty stadium and sit down a lot. I suppose I can understand the desire of some people to keep track of athletic records, such as fastest 100 meters, or sports records, like the number of home runs in a season (now discredited by steroid abusing cheats) or touchdown passes in a game. Then there’s all those records that fall into the category of “I know not everyone could do that but I’m not sure why anyone would want to”. How about “Most Ferrero Rocher chocolates eaten in a minute”? Yes, seriously. Are there categories for every major confectionery product? Then there’s “Most cockroaches eaten” (36 in a minute, apparently) and “Faetest run 100 meters, barefoot on ice”.

This is all bollocks, isn’t it? It’s not so much a collection of meaningful records as a freak show of weird and mentally diseased people, and all the bizarre things they choose to do, presumably to gain attention, although possibly in some cases as a symptom of some deep psychological disorder.

Bear in mind that there must have to be some Guinness Records represenative on hand for these events. How does that work then? Do you just pick up an economy pack of live cockroaches and call them up to make an appointment? Imagine what a shit job that must be.

“We’ve got a great assignment for you this week, Smith. We want you to go to Pasadena and spend 48 hours watching some dumbass sitting in lots and lots of identical seats. Oh, and you have to count how many times he does it. Why? Who the fuck knows why, Smith. It’s your goddam job. We’re in the records business and this dumb son of a bitch is going to set a record, so get your bony ass down to Pasadena and count some goddam plastic seats. Jesus, you’ll be telling me next you don’t want to count how many cockroaches a guy can eat.”

Let’s face it, the guy who can shear fifty sheep in eight hours probably earned a bit of respect in the sheep-shearing community. (Is there a record for the number of sheep fucked in eight hours?) But for a lot of these “records” the perpetrators are clearly mentally ill. Take the Italian bloke who typed sixty four books backwards. Why? What the fuck possesses someone to type even one book backwards? Isn’t this is documented in some psychologists’ handbook somewhere as a classic obsessive/compulsive disorder?

“Hi, honey, I’m home. What did you do today?”
“I typed forty pages of War and Peace backwards.”
“Oh terrific. You must be very proud. Would you like some more medication now? Or a lie down?”

Which brings us back to seat-sitting man. He apparently got the itch for this sort of thing twenty years ago after sitting in all 107,501 seats at the University of Michigan’s football stadium. I imagine he’s spent the intervening two decades persuading some institution somewhere that it was safe to let him out again, a decision that they’ll no doubt be rethinking today. The kind of uncontrollable desire that would drive a person to want to sit in all of 107,501 seats can only be textbook severe OCD. Don’t give him a world record, give him some drugs. And a securely padded room.

The appeal of the Guinness Book Of Records is clearly that it is something anyone can aspire to join. No special talent is required; this is smart from a business perspective. It’s the same reason those funny video shows always give the prizes to really shit, unfunny videos – they want the plebs to know that they can win too, so they’ll send their own crappy videos in, No-one would bother if the prize always went to a hilarious but rare shot of someone getting butted in the groin by a gigantic goat which then pisses on his prostrate body.

Anyway, feel free to get your name in the book. Shove a lot of cocktail sticks up your arse, or something. Just bear in mind that you’re putting your name down in a list of certified “weird, mentally ill or worryingly disordered” people, which can hardly be regarded as a recommendation, so best leave that entry off your resume…

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Beep Beep


Just in case I needed another reason not to get my penis pierced, I saw this news story today about a 37 year-old woman who was forced to remove her nipple piercings to get through a TSA screening at a Texas airport..

I wonder if she realizes she inspired a story in my new book Mr Bison’s Journal

 

Pig Out


There is allegedly a long tradition of religious tolerance here in the US – I say allegedly because any society that has a history of burning people at the stake for witchcraft can hardly be said to be tolerant of other people’s beliefs. In fact it’s fair to say that the puritan heritage exhibited very little tolerance for basic common sense either. Nevertheless there is now a constitutional amendment that at least goes some way towards ensuring religious freedom, although it doesn’t (contrary to popular belief) guarantee “equal rights” for all religions:

Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof.

So all is well for the Church Of The Jedi, a new church established in the UK today by two brothers who clearly possess no desire ever to get to grips with an actual woman’s vagina. They can proliferate their beliefs over here with impunity. These beliefs, by the way, are expressed in the form of such things as sermons on the Force and lightsaber training. Now I heard this come up a few times on the radio today and each time the presenters ripped the piss out of these guys and their made-up religion. And that’s OK; after all the First Amendment doesn’t create a right of freedom from ridicule, or criticism.

However, as I mentioned, the Church Of The Jedi was established in the UK, which has no constitution of any description and consequently no First Amendment. As a result the country is governed by a ruthless regime of political correctness, exemplified today by the decision of the British Government’s educational technology agency to reject a story based on the Three Little Pigs from their annual awards because the subject matter could offend muslims.

Let me just run that one by you again, in case your incredulity caused you to fall off your fucking chair and insert your head in your own rectum in pure despair. The Three Little Pigs, a beautiful and traditional story that’s been around the once-proud nation of Great Britain for countless generations is being hidden away in case the presence of a cartoon pig story offends the fucking jihad-supporting, female-oppressing, prayer-call wailing, nut-job muslim immigrants. The phrase “political correctness gone mad” no longer gets close to describing the sad state of affairs in my ex-homeland.

By now there’s probably a bunch of whiny wankers out there ready to speak up for the muslims. Fuck them. This is a religion that promises death to anyone that questions or mocks their beliefs, and that doesn’t fit with my idea of a modern free-thinking society founded on reasoned debate and tolerance of dissent. If the liberal lobby are so determined to stamp out behavior that might offend any religious groups I assume they will be cracking down tomorrow on all the people ridiculing the Church Of The Jedi. After all, if religions need to be respected regardless of the offensiveness of their beliefs and practices then I can’t see why it should be open season on the poor old Jedi church. To the unbiased observer I’m not sure one religion’s meditation and lightsaber practice is any more weird than the other’s refusal to eat pork and fasting for a month.

I’m no fan of the Catholic Church – they’re a corrupt organization of pedophile protectors as far as I can make out – but at least I’m free to state that as my belief. I’m sure if they had the chance to reinstate the Inquisition they’d be happy to burn me at the stake for my saying that but until then they’re pretty benign when it comes to criticism. When was the last time the Catholics called down a Fatwa on some poor bastard who’d done a cartoon of them? So why all the special consideration for the bloody muslims? If they want the protections of a free society, including freedom to express their beliefs, then they need to take what comes along with that – freedom of others to question, lampoon and criticize their beliefs.

So fuck the UK government and their pathetic accommodations. Three cheers for the Three Little Pigs. And hands off the Church Of The Jedi unless you’re prepared to take the piss out of the muslims too. Otherwise, in the words of the great teacher Yoda:

“A wanker you will be. Hmmm. Yes.”

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

Talk To The Animals


By the time you read this it will probably be Monday morning. You may well be at work, pondering the futility of your existence. Or, in the case of anyone living in Dallas, the futility of your football team’s existence. Nevertheless I am here to tell you that it could be worse. Today’s offering in the category of “Jobs No-one Needs” is Pet Medium.

I don’t know what classes you take to prepare for a career as a pet medium. My guess is that drugs would be more helpful. Lots and lots of drugs. In fact the only thing sadder than being a pet medium is probably being the person paying $75 an hour to a pet medium to help them form a better relationship with their dead cat. It’s worth pointing out here that pet mediums (and amazingly there is more than one in the world) don’t just talk with your dead pets; they also communicate with your live ones, relaying messages to you about what they’re really thinking. This is what makes a career as a pet medium so much more fulfilling than that of a “dead people” medium. Not only do you not have to draw your contacts solely from the ranks of the deceased (who aren’t there anymore to tell their relatives that you’re talking bollocks) but you can expand your sales pitch to the realms of the living (albeit only pets, who also are in no position to tell their owner that you’re still talking bollocks).

The work of a pet medium is not limited to communicating with your pet, however; they also offer healing. The specific methods for healing your pet get a bit vague and appear to fall into the category of “things which you can offer without any training or certification whatsoever but which have fancy enough names that you can charge a bundle for them”. One example is aromatherapy. We all know the principle of this – you expose someone to nice smells and they get better. OK, I’ll suspend disbelief for a second, but here’s the thing: I know what dogs like to smell, and I wouldn’t pay anyone to serve these things up on purpose. They don’t seek out peppermint oil or sandalwood; no, they prefer essence of other dogs anus, fragrance of their own testicles, fire hydrant urine, roadkill and fresh excrement. Lovely!

You’d think that life would be tough as a pet medium – after all you’re essentially peddling bullshit to people who should know better. It’s worth remembering though that there is a sizeable subset of pet owners who are so freakishly fucking obsessed with their dogs and cats that they are willing to pay almost any money to some dumb bitch who will tell them that “yes, little Kitty loves you very much but just wishes you’d rub her tummy more in the evenings”.

Here’s a little test, just in case you’re considering hiring a pet medium and you would like to know whether they are genuine: just ask “Why does my dog keep licking his balls?” If you get any other answer than “Because he can, of course” then you can safely assume the medium is a lying sack of poodle droppings.

By the way, if you happen to be attempting to make contact with a black cat called Arthur, don’t believe any pet medium who tells you that he’s at peace on a higher astral plane where he’s perpetually chasing wool. He is in fact (at least partly) contained within the knobbly tread of the offside rear wheel of my neighbor’s truck, from which he is apparently proving to be tricky to dislodge with a pointy stick. See – life could be worse.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison

World’s Scariest Animal Videos

I was listening to a couple of guys in the gym yesterday discussing the relative merits of a video that one had loaned to the other. This particular video was not something you’d typically pick up at Blockbuster, and apparently involved two young ladies providing services to a horse that a horse would not normally expect to receive, even from another horse, since horses are not possessed of opposable thumbs. These videos fall into the category of “I can’t believe they’re doing that” compulsive viewing. I assume that what motivates people to watch is the same impulse that makes people look when they drive by a bad road accident; although I can’t imagine people exchanging videos of road accidents, Fox certainly filled a lot of time with its “World’s Scariest Police Chases” which amounts to much the same thing.

Anyway, I asked about the videos that have done the rounds and they include, by all accounts, man-on-chicken activities as well as traditional girl-on-horse, and dog-on-woman, followed by man-on-woman-after-dog. I understand the compulsive nature of the viewing; I just hope, for the sake of humanity, that there aren’t too many people out there who actually get aroused by this sort of thing. One of the gentlemen at the gym started off on a whole discussion about the high percentage of people growing up on farms who, when surveyed, admit to having engaged in sexual activities with animals, and in particular the favored status of sheep in this regard. I didn’t ask how they go about recruiting people to administer these surveys, how many surveyors get their heads punched after asking small-town Cletus if he’s ever molested any of his livestock, or what would possess small-town Cletus or any of his kin to answer “yes” to a question of this nature.

It occurred to me to wonder whether humans are the only species that engages in sex with other species. I mean, you don’t hear of dogs getting it on with cats, or giraffes shagging gazelles (although there may be some physical limits that come into play if you happen to be a giraffe). Why do humans (albeit a small, twisted segment of humanity) want to have sex with other animals? I don’t know about the sexual habits of other species (comments welcome from qualified biologists) but I’m willing to bet that we’re the only species that crosses the species boundary to get its jollies.

Someone commented that even if you’re a lonely Iowa farm boy, ugly and surrounded by hogs, surely it would be better just to jerk off rather than mount the bacon, as it were. On the other hand tales from the prison system seem to suggest that even a felon’s bung-hole is preferable to many other felons than just going manual. It is, without any doubt, a disturbing world in which we live.

Anyway, it’s Sunday, the day on which many of us confront the miserable reality of going back to work for five more days on the morrow. A thought to cheer you up as the inevitable looms ever larger: there are many miserable jobs out there, replete with irritating co-workers, inadequate remuneration and uninspiring daily activities, but I’m willing to bet that you wouldn’t trade for the man whose job it will be on Monday to fuck a chicken, or any of the women whose first assignment involves fellating a quarter-horse. You see? Life seems better already doesn’t it? It’s just a matter of perspective. And maybe that’s the real reason those videos make the rounds: they are guaranteed to make your own life seem suddenly wonderful.

Having said all that, my life doesn’t seem too bad right now, and I don’t believe it would be improved any by watching a man doing it with a chicken, so thanks but no thanks.

Copyright © 2008 Edward Bison