My fantasy for the past ten
years, if you want to know the truth, has usually revolved around Scarlett
Johansson and a year’s supply of duct tape. Granted, I have her by 30 years,
but after all, this is what fantasies are all about and besides, I always wanted
to direct. However, having reached the age where death sits comfortably on the
cusp of my being I find myself in need of a new scenario to jump start my
private time, one that not only satisfies the primal portion of my makeup, but
also palliates a deeper dimension that begins to gnaw on men of my
particular vintage.
When
I was young man pure carnal release was more often than not the goal as it is
with most mammals, if watching Animal Planet is any indication. Men by nature
are broadcasters in the most basic definition of the word. Behavioral
scientists the world over will testify to this as fact and you can throw in a
battery of suburban mothers as well, any mom who has done the laundry or
cleaned under a bed of one of her teen male charges. To this day, bureau drawers
everywhere in former pubescent bedrooms from Bangor to San Berdoo are still
chock-a-block filled with vintage stroke mags of the era all spattered, to
some degree, by the residue of an ancient teenage nut.
My
own teenage memory served me well in the most prurient way possible too, as a
boy looking to enjoy the solitary vice in solitary, out of the purview of a
sibling or nosy mother. Mission accomplished for the most part, but we all get
older and now I’m at a point in life where the fantasy of the basic animal
has to fan out a little more and offer something closer to a 3rd
dimension.
So,
at the age of 62 I have cobbled together a new fantasy, one that not only guarantees
with prima facie exuberance my place in the food chain, but also positions me
for success in the eternal, epochal battle of natural selection.
I
am at an Ivy League university (pick one) speaking to an undergraduate audience
on the rise of narcissism in the digital world. My lecture “Shut The Fuck Up! – The Cosmos Always Has The
Last Word” has been a sensation ever since I first presented it at The Vatican. The joint is packed. The best and the
brightest hang on my every word. Each joke, insight and nuance during my
presentation is greeted with the huzzahs of a throng that knows they are in the
presence of an oracle, a man of such subtlety and taste that the paradigm is
literally being reconfigured in front of their eyes.
I
conclude my speech in a fury worthy of the most contemptuous rock band that has
ever puked on an audience by declaring with cast iron bravado, “I’m Jeff Schneider…and You know who the fuck
you are…!” Spiking the microphone then flashing the peace sign in some
circles might have been looked at as a little recherché, but the brazenness of
it made all the difference in the world as I was soon hoisted up into a
handmade palanquin and carried off stage to the swag table where I sell 10K in
books, DVDs and commemorative slacks.
I
was now a rock star after all and as with every rock star you get to sign a few
titties after the show. That’s right! The best and the hottest, gorgeous
handmaidens with Brahmin pedigrees lining up to unabashedly display their goods
for my holy imprimatur. At $20 for each Hancock, I easily clear another thou.
One hour later, the last starry eyed female of the night stands before me her right breast
prominently displayed, a beautiful, nurturing gland of great symmetry, heft and
profile ready for a little attention and by virtue apotheosis in
the eyes of her friends.
I
uncap my Sharpie, pause for a moment to make sure that what I am about to
impart has the gravitas of a god, then proceed to write just above my
accomplice’s dark chocolate areola; “We content ourselves fulfilling the
destinies of lesser men” Best wishes…Jeff Schneider.
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