Major Tom Says "Fuck Houston!"
That The Problem others don't want to take to their deathbed, is one of an odd geography is most evident. That it might be of the bed's geography, however odd that may sound, has not really come out. (The benefit of the doubt is given only to chewing idiots nonetheless - one learns from experience.) The Problem is after all a problem of space: of invasion and occupation. What else can you actually invade and occupy apart from spatial parameters? However hairy, what else is there but odd little spaces to go in them and do your sit-in? Hm? As Woody Allen's reiteration goes - not far from another failed Jewish sex scene - politicians do tend to do it country-wide. If this is some sort of post-agricultural bourgeios syndrome really has to wait for another session. What some of them claim as a source is their polygamous leanings, and ours having grown up with at least two mothers at any given time, not to mention all the toy-boys, the gigolos and the sugar-daddys hanging around left and right you can't blame them. For others it's a racying heart (ain't I a fucking risque cunning tongue master?!) unable to commit to one and thus trying to put them all in, stuff it real nice; but a certain impotence is what usually nurtures transference. Sorry babes. In a country were the precedent of pill-taking has neither critical nor Leary-ean connotations, but at most an ad-hoc Sunday column in a paper and random lunchtime TV cameos, whiskey in hand, which one can nowadays get without even leaving their bedroom and with only just a webcam (the pixelated imago, not the whiskey), no eggs are broken, because really no eggs are sucked. The goose, God bless her, is brightly brightly laying them about so no hard feelings. And anyway in case you haven't got your own plot to plough, there are the 04:00 egg-eating, free-rangers of Liberation Square or gracing their namesake Heros' Memorial down under. Transference rules! No egg is even egged to going up the wall, not to roll out of the nest, steal a tart and go down the rabbit hole! What nonsense that would be, wouldn't it! Yes, the wall has lost its firmness a bit, elasticity treacling down,cleavage not enough to hold it up, getting a bit more roomy, a bit more accommodating, but all this air going in and out, through it, doesn't really help. People get cold and rush into shops to warm up, have quick awkward drinks and skip the chit-chat, as there is only enough blood for one stiffness, to carry one being Allenic. And socks are a no-no nowadays, not to mention gloves (wooly, not elastic mind you).
So what do you do? Surely this is a problem for the local authorities to take care. Bring it down to first (or third) base. Suggestions anyone? Well certainly. Thanks for asking. In that long and narrow wedge, with their share of socialism and their share of coups, they wouldn't let their citizens chill, would they? Major Tom's protein pill was enlisted to help with the "quality of life". We got balloons and honey-balls. Bloody transference objects again! And we keep calling guys with three names to sort it out for us and talk to them about deathbeds and who we don't want to do it with. Is this some form of kink? Do we really enjoy threesomes and voyeurism so much or is this a residue of our collective post-masturbatory guilt, when in the '60's, when everyone was into orgies and all this soixante-huit 69's, we kept waving it around and coming all over the place, unable to actually invade anything?
But Viagra - now that's what I call a reapproachment-based solution. Yes, the Santiagoans got this age restriction in place. But don't you secretly yearn for all those grandfatherly treats? You should go check it out if you do. I know of a good pill-giving doctor if it comes to that. Think of all the illegal possibilities! I can't do everything for you.