Beauty

Since I love you all so much, I feel compelled to post something of interest: hot chicks!

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This is Farrah Fawcett.

When I was young, she was the epitome of the desirable woman. She has ruined more gym socks than any other person on Earth. And it wasn’t her (small) boobs or her (average) ass. It was her eyes and her teeth, her trend-setting hairstyle and her strangely compelling vacuousness. She got older and much crazier, then she got cancer and died. It’s too bad.

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Brazilian beauties.

I’ve always been fascinated by the allure of celebrity vs the real-world appreciation of female beauty. We watch TV and films and we fill magazines with worshipful adoration of the leading ladies. But are they really hotter than a Brazilian showgirl or “that waitress” at the greasy spoon? No, they aren’t. It’s their unattainable nature (i.e. Farrah Fawcett) that invokes scarcity, and scarcity increases value. It’s the capitalist version of aesthetics.

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Is beauty timeless?

Yes, it is. We gape at a dramatic mountain vista with the same wonder and astonishment as our prehistoric ancestors. The lines of a wild cat, the asymmetry of an orchid, the patterns of snow on rocks and the gentle curves of the ladies.

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Does fashion dictate?

Beauty is not fashion, regardless of what the media wants you to believe. Fashion doesn’t define beauty; it feeds off it like a parasite.

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What's in a pretty face?

We all know what’s pretty, but none of us can describe beauty. It’s more than just subjective interest; philosophers have struggled with the subject for centuries. Unfortunately, they are vested in (and shackled by) their own subjective interests. The wheels continue to spin.

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It's just...that.

In my life, I’ve fallen in love with, and would have no other woman than…

– a short busty Jersey girl.
– a striking blonde forest nymph.
– an aging hillbilly woman.
– a statuesque nerdy girl.
– a stunning homecoming queen.
– a hairy hippie girl.
– a slender brunette.

None of my ex-GF’s have anything in common. And between them were many short (sometimes very short) relationships with women of every description. The one thing they had in common was their ability to transfix me like no other. If I could explain it (and bottle it) I’d be rich.

Instead, we all must make do with our own ridiculously infallible desires.

And we men? Ladies, I have no fucking idea what you see in us. I’m just glad you see it.

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2 Responses to “Beauty”


  • Pixiemeat (a.k.a. Alexander von Dorken)

    The thing that gets me frothing with vexed agitation is that the “celebrity” notion is relentlessly emulated, and poorly stolen, by every darling tart who has a perky ass and stick of mascara. When translated through the meager reserves of potentially attractive American damsels, this celebrity ideal — namely having a talent beyond merely twitter-pating menfolk with your Hot Topic mini-skirt — seems to become an entitlement program. “I’m hot because you’re looking at me. Buy me a Porsche, asshole, or at least tell me I look like Rhianna so I can sniff sideways and strut off into the night as though you had just asked me if I was into casual assplay. Porsche, bitch! No Porsche, then no Portia.”
    I’ve often pondered the environmental consequences of this because, well, it is just what people do when there’s rivers of totally inaccessible quimm going downstream and, ultimately, to waste. Listen: Men will do anything for a taste of the ‘tang. Murder is just the obvious and boring start of the list — consider, also, that they’ll buy stoopid houses, retarded cars, and a collection of wetbikes and geegaws for no other reason than to gild and adorn themselves for the batted eyes of the chikitas. They’ll get droll college degrees, invest in Exxon, and create start-up corporations fueled by child labor or their asthmatic grandmothers. They’ll tattoo their face and join a band. They’ll do all of these things and more so that they, maybe, will have a chance to wax one of these spontaneous little starlets.
    The cycle is self-fulfilling and relentless, a perpetual motion machine that puts the loudest, dumbest, and most widget-spangled assholes firmly betwixt the thighs of the most vapid and self-centered barrista-cum-Bitneys.
    Often, if you can engage them in such discourse, women will claim to want a “sensitive” man — one who respects the Earth Mother, Gaia, and puts a life of harmony and thought upon the table to serve up endless dollops of love, communication, honesty and, yes, wedded bliss.
    Then, at the first opportunity, this self-same harlot will rush out and skeeze-bang Steve’s warty cock — you know, the cool bartender that is in that one band, yeah, with the tattoo of his motorcycle on his scrotum, who, like, totally got up in this dude’s face for trying to buy me a drink the other night … he’s rad.
    That’s my whole theory. It is based on volumes of evidence stored across the affluent-strewn landscape of modern America and, therefore, is as unimpeachable as an exhortation of resilient wisdom belched forth from any rabid evangelical or talk radio zealot.
    Hurricane Katrina, scientists now are proclaiming, had enough stored energy to fuel the United State’s entire energy needs for five years. The power stored betwixt that craven beauty’s nubile haunches, however, could make Katrina look like a kitten in a dewy field of posies. It is a latent force, currently going to waste in its potential to beneficially transform society, but, sadly, about it as destructive as any category 6 shitstorm of debauchery and foolishness we could dream up on the WeatherChannel.
    Buy more stuff, then, and get sucked into their jet-stream of yowling inanity.
    Get yourself a Porsche — you, actually, seem like you really need it. You ain’t exactly Brad Pitt, you know, and exactly Brad Pitt, or Rhianna, is the only thing worth a boiled turd anymore.
    Buy it and suck in the bliss like a balloon hit at a candy rave — fleeting but, motherous Jesus, AAAAhhh what a rush!
    Then settle into “it” and remember this … you won’t even have to let her drive it until after the first divorce is finalized.

  • Well, that was quite the unloading, kind sir.

    For some perspective, you surely know that the only reason men ever do ANYTHING is to get girls. We’re not tricked into it; we’re genetically pre-disposed to play guitar, accumulate wealth and juggle fire. It’s our dance.

    And remember: the “walking wallet” syndrome is a two-way street. And among the panoply of human experience there is an enormous scale of dances. There is the loathsome film executive and his dunderheaded actress. There is the cunning CEO and his trophy wife. There is the Trans Am redneck and his WalMart squeeze. But there are also millions of men who volunteered to dance, and bashful women who took their hand. There is love, my good sir. It isn’t the most common thing, but scarcity bestows value. And that’s why love is so highly prized.

    I’ve had it and lost it many times over. I’ve known its riches and its wretchedness. It’s borne of the search for beauty, which is what this post was all about. You can find it in landscapes and muscle cars and women. Beauty and love. The former is everywhere; the latter is scarce indeed.

    Don’t let the bastards (or bitches, as the case may be) get you down. For every reality TV retard are a host of women whose sincerity may surprise you.

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