Once you’ve graduated from a bachelor’s to a master’s in alcohol consumption, it’s bound to have crossed your mind before: “I’m drunk and desiring hookers.”
Just about everything can be served through a vending machine or a phone call or drive-thru, but not sex. No-no, our good, God-fearing society can’t possibly endorse the idea that every gluttonous pleasure comes super-sized and we’re better off not making cat-houses culturally acceptable. People wanna bump pelvises at whim; let’s make money off it. Social Security would be paid for 100 years, and high schools wouldn’t have to cut music and art to make ends meet.
We’re all pretty animalistic if you think about it, and I’ve yet to meet anyone who hasn’t played cards with the devil and been dealt a sin. Personally, I collect them on a key chain; it gives me a good jingle called “We’re All Pots and Kettles” when I walk.
But to get good, service-based companionship for the night shouldn’t depend on going to county lockup.
I’ve seen it happen before; one drunk friend says to the drunker one, “I’m drunk and desiring hookers.” Since they can’t get hookers and they are still drunk, boredom turns into trouble, and then it’s county jail. Getting waited on by staff, doling out paperwork and entertaining a guy named Bubba and his foot fetish. Someone go flush that toilet.
Besides, just the mention of a cat-house echoes dirty, seedy establishments in the minds built under the thumb of utopian human nonsense. I’m preaching a school of thought that turns what already does happen into a business, regulated and taxed. Amsterdam-quality and professional working communes where those of scant cloth can be heard echoing the Gregorian chant of the red-light district.
And before anyone gets excited and wants to call me sexist, I believe that at least one lady here in town patrons Chippendales. Because we’re all just a little animalistic sometimes when we look at objects of desire, aren’t we? It goes, “Oh, be a dear please, I just can’t seem to reach that top shelf, ladders scare my old joints, will you get that for me?” The female version of an upskirt.
But most importantly in our cultural rehabilitation, we treat problems in society for just symptoms. You put a girl around those two drunk friends I mentioned earlier, and even if she only teases them until their drunk lullaby, there is a complete change in behavior.
They are less likely to get in trouble and certainly satisfied that at least someone entertained inherent human fantasies for attention, companionship and dirty thoughts.
I mean, just watch “When Harry Met Sally,” and it’ll make sense that inter-gender friendships have an apparent obstacle.
But really, I don’t care how pure people think they can keep the facade going. Little Johnny learns early on about all of this carnal knowledge, and even if he doesn’t see the building called the church of legs, he’s still looking for the church of legs in the people with whom he interacts.
We want to protect the image of Oxford (like our children) by knocking down the ideas of such a church. Yet we can’t understand the mayhem of bored college students whose entertainment highlights include an overpriced movie theater or the bars, or whatever special interest the university is running for the month at half price. It makes me think that people like writing DUIs for the amount of money made because whether you believe me or not, everything is a business opportunity.
Think about that.
Daniel Purdy is an English senior from Oxford.
