And lazy titles.
A couple nights ago I was watching a program on tv about people who like dating races not their own. There were African women who liked white guys, white guys who liked THEM, white women who liked Africans and Asians, and the usual suspects – white men who like Asian ladies (why is there something shameful about being a white man who likes Asian women? Dunno, but there is).
Some people said it was the colour contrast. Other people said it was the cultural values. ‘She really looks after me’ (not like those newfangled uppity modern white gals!). ‘He loves the way I look in a black sack – when he turns round to look, that is’ (no, I made that one up. As far as I know, the only queue for unreconstructed Pakistani males is populated by the fathers, not the intended brides).
Anyway, it put me in mind of the time (now past) when I pretty much only dated Africans. Some of my less diplomatic friends implied that it was because they’re supposed to be well hung. For the record, they aren’t, particularly. In reality I had a few reasons, all of them a bit wobbly. The place I used to go to dance was stacked with Africans. You pretty much had to brush them out of your clothes as you left the building. Most were well built and goodlooking. They liked me. I liked them. Half the time I couldn’t understand what they were talking about and that was a mark in their favour – there’s nothing like an accent to make a fairly ordinary intelligence seem alluring and inaccessible. I’m not saying Africans are dumb. PEOPLE are dumb. And I have no racial prejudices about who I sleep with, none at all.
Moving on from that, I’ve recently started writing love songs…cause I can! All you need is a recording thingi in your computer, a borrowed backing track, and you’re away. Just like Rebecca Black. Of course right NOW they’re love songs…cause I’m in love. Later on when my singing career develops they might be political anthems – like Greenday – or comments on the futility of existence – like Coldplay. It is the most awesome fun! Here’s one.
And on a final note, if you find yourself in a six hour meeting trapped with a pontificating academic, here are some interesting possibilities to mull over.
- The presenter spontaneously combusts. All are amazed. And relieved.
- An earthquake traps you all for nine days. You eat the presenter, who mysteriously (in the dark) tastes like tiramisu.
- The presenter’s hair turns into writhing snakes. She keeps talking.
- The presenter’s face falls off and she is revealed as a slobbery alien. We shoot her and globs go everywhere.
- The presenter’s hands get stuck to the whiteboard. We all leave and never come back.
- The presenter turns into a vampire and leaps on the next most boring person in the room. Hilarity ensues.