Not asking for works, not primitive, fake carry-on, no sound effect? Just a sign, casual thanks, real natural, from the heart. Alright, as fake as hell, but something? Alright, I'll be he-man, drag her clothes off, frosty silence, disapproval, but surely, after the effort, there has to be something? Hot dog, coco-cola, Chevrolet, man, teeny something?
Where has the race gone? What's all the bull? The clap-trap on tv? The moaning and groaning—"It's sexist, she's just an object, being used" All bull. She's a dream, hopeless dream, invented fiction, never was. Why do the girls paint up, dress down, wear themselves out, look like a dream? What are they on about? It's not them. Their hearts are not in it. What are they thinking of? Why freeze and show it off? They don't want it off.
Why paint and parade, why pay and skimp, why try and compete? What are they competing for? They don't want the prize.
Men are just as bad. Incurable dreamers. Let's face it, men are for populating, and guess what, the ladies have noticed that there are about six billion too many of us. Probably it's all this environmental stuff, that's put them off. All the talk, talk, talk, when any damn fool can see the world can't be sustainable again, until everyone gets off. Well, nearly everyone. There wouldn't be a world if there was no one to verify it.
Then it would be back to Adam and Eve, and everyone hard at it. Six billion. Think of that. There's dedication for you. Those old guys were in clover. They paced themselves, and made every time count. Some of them were still at it eight hundred years on. Solomon, Ghengis Khan. They were the days. A man was in demand then. It was a man's world then.
What is it now? Who's in front now? Who's winning now? You might as well be queer. You're finished up, obsolete, excess to requirement, services no longer required. Might have been beer, bread and bed, just beer and bread now.
Well, there are some great beers around, now. Even bread has picked up a lot. Remember when you held it up to the light, and picked out the weevils? It's too damn toxic for any weevil now. Beer and bread. You're saving yourself, getting fat, no proper exercise, no getting on with it. But you don't want to be fat and saved. You want to be worn out, exhausted, and irritable, hard at it.
What's with this Romance thing? What are the ladies on about? Surely a cooking book or a street directory, but Romance? Surely Romances are about, well, it? So why are they all reading about, it? Have they over evolved, gone all abstract, lost the point, into print? Are their emotions in type, edited, proof read, and critiqued? No bumbling and fumbling, experiment, embarrassment. They're tried and proven, scripted, perfected, and directed, completely in print?
Come to that, what about fun? Just plain fun? You pay to be put in a cement mixer, given all hell? We're so bereft that we hire Walt Disney for fun? Is that it? Get put in a machine, audio, visual, sensual, abysmal. We're so bereft, we have to be directed, even for fun?
Is that what's wrong with bed? Do we need Walt Disney, big machine, Donald Duck? Audio visual, super sensual, optimized, turbo-charged? If there isn't five hundred horsepower, sub orbital, ground shaking, earth-quaking? If it's not computerized, sanitized, imported, child safe, made in China, its not bed? Have we become so detached that we're not there? Did we get cyber spaced? If we're connected, it's internet?
We've got to make a stand. Ten million years old doesn't mean it's clapped out. The girls have to pull themselves together, get their acts straight. Back to basics, ladies, you're missing the point. No one wants you on a calendar, they want you in bed. Old fashioned no, down market, low key, just plain ordinary, no. It's tried and proven. Be positive, analyse your mind, get the priorities straight. Get your gear off, give a hand, make it fun, start tonight.
Oh dear, I'm sorry, forget what I said, your hair is amazing, no it's not about, just let's be happy, I love the cake, if nothing else, then peace, heavens, yes, I know it's not proper to mention, I have no doubt your mother said. . .
According to Glen Jones "The piece is not intended in any way to upset the girls, but rather to give them a little encouragement."
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