You Tool!

Picture if you will a 60-year-old husk of a man standing on a cliff looking over the variegated mid-tones of the sea below. He is nude. An erect penis belies his stage one decrepitude. Not so easy to come by considering the exigencies and failings of the flesh in that order. That the man is paying strict attention to his bowsprit is a testament to not only his laser-like focus, but to a failed marriage as well.

Our man’s style honed after many years is somewhat dated, but analogue as it may be can still deliver the goods given a 30-minute head start and no one in the house. Stroking furiously the beads of sweat form on his furrowed brow. Don’t let the expression on his face; somewhat akin to smelling the effluvium of bad cheese fool you, he is a man of deep commitment. The early fantasies of his best friend’s mother bending into the oven have been supplanted over the years by a huge cast each having to make a cameo appearance lest the result of this cardiovascular exercise remain just that.

However, after Scarlet Johansson and Christina Hendricks surface from each other’s heavily perfumed inner sanctums, success. A drop of precious fluid gathers at the tip of his cock. Miraculously the drop gets bigger and bigger proving that this cat is no piker. With a vestigial reserve of pornographic torque the seed loses its grip and drops into the gray murk below.

And strangely there is not a sound or a ripple. Quietude reigns as the precipitate vanishes, folded seamlessly into the viscosity as if the footprint of our respondent never even existed at all.

That is pretty much the same effect you get posting a video on You Tube, jerking off into an ocean of cum. Millions of idiots standing light years away from any real artistic talent hoping upon hoping that some Hollywood pahdoosa sifting through the discharge of the Internet’s populist corners will discover their amazing gift of launching bottle rockets from the pad of a very talented turd cutter.

The egalitarian nature of the Internet lowers the bar to the point that If you are willing to smack your nuts with a hammer or put on your mother’s nightie and mince around for two minutes you can court a sizeable audience of likeminded misfits, believers that a three picture deal is right around the corner. For these 50 million carnival geeks, well, they are just supremely sad cats that know deep down that the next phone call they are likely to receive will be from Colonel Trautman. “It’s over Johnny!!!” and the next sound they’ll definitely hear will be from moms calling them up from the basement for a homemade dinner of Spaghetti Os and Kool-Aid.

What’s a little more dust in the wind anyway? While there is no cure for cancer, there is still no cure for Kim Kardashian either. Serious discourse be damned! Every minute of every day 72 new hours of videos are posted on You Tube by the millions and millions of undiscovered geniuses screaming from their subterranean soapboxes. I guess you could safely argue that this has been one of them.