Eric came over to the apartment for dinner a while ago. It was nice of him. He told us a story about something that had happened in his classroom that day. His eyebrows were high, his mouth gaping, "A fifth-grade girl got some sext messages from a guy at the middle school." His message was "Can you believe that? Isn't that awful? They are living in a different world."
And I've noticed a rise in penis pictures on the periphery of my life. Not just random ones that have been orphaned from the rest of their male out in cyberspace, but personal ones, connected ones, attached to traceable phone numbers and emails. These people are saying, "Look, here is my sausage blossom. I'd like you to have a picture of it."
Brett Favre's sexting scandal cost him $50,000. Kanye West writes the lyrics, "She find pictures in my email/ I sent this bitch a picture of my dick" and he sells almost half a million albums in the first week.
I've been running to the song with those lyrics (It's my favorite on the album so far.), and I like how straight he sings that line. He's not bragging, and he's not ashamed. He's more like, "Oh yeah, that happened. I had forgotten about it." I like it because he's also a bit baffled. Tell me, again, how portions of my anatomy ended up in my out box. In his puerility he asks for all of us: what the hell are we doing?
I'm guessing that this impulse has always been inside of us -- we are not newly finding the urge to bombard others with our manhood. In the olden days by the time you had taken johnson out for a jiggle, snapped the photo, walked over to your ink jet, produced a stamp and envelope, and mailed that sucker, you had thought better of it.
Now we can easily use our bodies as weapons against other people. We send their naked little images up to space where they are redirected to the cellphone of a fifth-grade girl and embedded into her memory.
I'm 100% sure that "Sausage Blossom" needs to be slapped on a coaster
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