Sunday, July 1, 2007

Regarding Matters of Sun and Skin

You need a license to drive a car. You need a license to sell alcohol. You need a license to fish. You need a license to hunt. You need a license to have your house renovated. You need a license to set up a shop and sell goods. You need a license to practice medicine. So the question that remains is this: if you need a license for all of these very important and essential aspects of life, why don't you, if you are in fact a born female, need a license to wear a bikini?

I know what you're thinking. "Matt, you misogynist fuck, not with this again. Just because you look like you stepped out of a concentration camp and onto a treadmill doesn't mean that's the case with everyone else. Look, we live in one of the richest countries of the world and we've horded the food from all the other countries just for ourselves. Those starving children? We've got their pork chops. The antibiotics in the cows? We get the privilege of eating the cows and drinking those tasty chemicals in the milk. Our tap water? Kinda tainted. Our soda? It's rotting our teeth. Isn't that sweet and shit? Aren't we fortunate?"

My answer is this: please die in a fire. That's not the direction I was going. See, I just came back from a cruise in the Caribbean. Yes, it was awesome, and yes I smuggled some hash pipes back from Mexico and yes I did drink champagne and almost run over a rooster with an All Terrain Vehicle and yes I did sneak past customs some Cuban tobacco products and go over the U.S.-allowed limit with the purchase of bottles and bottles of Duty Free liquor. But while on that cruise ship I saw something more vile than any river in any 3rd world country or any bowl of rotting meat in Spain: I saw chubby girls in bikinis.

The day on the cruise ship would start off innocently. I would enjoy a nice breakfast of fruit and cereal and tea. Then, I would take my beach towel, iPod and sunglasses and sit along either the port or starboard side of the boat eager to stare at ass all afternoon or until I felt the need for more champagne. And then in front of me would traipse what I can only describe as buckets of tan slime wrapped in sparse pieces of lycra. I mean, my hearing's not the best, but I could have sworn the lycra was making squealing noises ... the kind animals make when they're in the process of dying.

And one by one they passed by my deck chair, and one by one it appeared like a motley circus. Being raised Catholic, I couldn't help but think of Noah's Ark: here I am on a boat in a sea, and here are various animals on parade. But Noah would have limited the boat to two hippos. Because Noah had some standards.

If you're fat or large or obese, yes, yes I know it's your genes or whatever bullshit you've been force-fed. That's perfectly acceptable. But what's not acceptable is exposing all of that largeness to an unsuspecting populace looking for tight ass in stretchy material. Like me. I want to be entertained, not repulsed. So you've got a little extra. Don't wear a bikini. So you like Oreos. I actually like Oreos too. Don't wear a bikini. Over 50? Don't wear a bikini. My skinniness and paleness aren't exactly going to set womanhood back fifty years, so I keep my clothes on.

But, if you're eighteen or over (looks around suspiciously) and you look damn good naked, wrap that nakedness with something sexy as hell and strut around the boat. Maybe you might want to ... get into the pool and dry off by walking. Walking a lot. Walking this way, walking that way - looking over the edge of the boat into the water. You can drink something. But drink it slowly. Order a beer. In a bottle. And drink it slowly. And don't mind my camera clicking. And don't mind my video camcorder. That's right. And don't mind my binoculars. Oooh, yeah, that's it. That's right. And don't mind my telescope. God, yes, yes, that's it. And don't mind my jeweler's loupe. Mmmmm, yessss ... so dirty, so raw ... mmmmmm ...

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... wait, where was I going with this again?