Last night I watched an episode of (the BBC comedy) Coupling on BBC America (if you haven't seen it imagine six people drinking and talking about sex, but imagine they do it in an amusing way). I was quite surprised to discover that it is really quite funny. I even laughed out loud (alone in my empty flat, mind you) a few times, which is quite rare when I'm watching a sitcom — normally they just make me smile, or maybe chuckle if they're good.
Anyhow the main thing that came out of me watching the show was that I realized that I was failing the men of the world. You see, I have a dangerous lack of pornography. There are all those guys out there who a trapped in an enforced pornography free, or pornography rationed, world, due to the wishes of their womenfolk. I'm talking about those men who can not have pornography openly displayed in their abode, those poor men who have to go to convoluted lengths to hide their paltry porn stash. And here I am, living the porn lover's dream, a single guy living alone in my own apartment. It should really be part of my duties, to my fellow man, to have an excessive quantity of pornography, out of sympathy for those who are pornography deprived. Every room in my apartment should be a shrine dedicated to an unhealthy obsession with the unclothed female form. There should be pictures adorning every wall in the flat, wherever one's eyes linger they should linger on a barely clad lady. Instead, I am sad to report, I only possess one solitary pornographic magazine. And what is worse I didn't even purchase the one magazine I own (it was a Christmas present, in case you're interested). So, if you are a man suffering from pornography rationing, I apologize for my lack of due diligence in the pursuit of pornography.
At what point does one start to think that they are drinking too much? Or does one just start to think that they are spending too much money on drink? And which is worse?
I can't remember the last day when I didn't have at least one beer downstairs, and a few people have suggested to me that maybe I am drinking too much. Of course, these are often the same people who chastise me when they go to the cafe and don't find me in it. For example, there is one customer (she's a girl, for what it's worth... and I probably should have described her as a friend and not just a customer of the cafe, but never mind for now) who in the last seven days has, complained I drink too much, complained when I didn't get a beer when she did, told me not to drink when I was ill this weekend and then told me not to listen to her telling me not to drink when I was ill... is it any wonder that I don't comprehend the human (read female) mind.
On the subject of the inherent incomprehensibility of the female mind, why do nearly all the women I know complain about their boyfriends to/at me? And when they do, what exactly am I supposed to say/do/think about it? I mean are they telling me, a male, because they want to see if I'll defend their boyfriend's actions. Or am I supposed to play the sympathetic to their plight "Oh girlfriend that is terrible" (drag queen impersonation optional). Or am I just meant to 'listen', where 'listen' is defined as paying attention to what they say, nodding in the right places, hmming, huhhing, and the occasional, well placed, "really" or similar. Or is it just intended as the ultimate slap in the face to my manliness — my boyfriend cheats on me, beats on me, sacrifices children and kittens to the devil, mugs grandmothers, rapes great-grandmothers after he mugs them... and he's still better than you.
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