Yesterday's Holiday is Named Fat Tuesday for a Reason

I am not sure what it is about Generation Y. All you fucking MySpacer's out there just love to expose yourself.

Back in the day exposing yourself was dirty. It made you a cheap slut. Even if you were "just playing office with your stepbrothers."

I'm not sure what part of office includes you getting finger banged by a semi related family member, but who am I to complain? I haven't fingered banged a girl since my step-sister, so I really wished I had remained in contact with her after my father left her Mom.

Sorry, I digressed. I digressed into sexually inappropriate memories of my former stepsister. But if your step-sister was as hot as my step-sister then you would too. Especially if you finger fucked her on more than one occasion.

I bring up how my step-sister used to molest me for a good reason. When you read about step-brother/sister fucking you generally get a bit sick to your stomach. You should, because it's dirty. And it was the dirty that was so exciting. At least for my step-sister.

If it wasn't for how disgusting my stepsister thought I was and how dirty it might be to have her step-brother finger bang in the back of her Mom's pickup bed on the way home from our Aunt Jean's house, I would have never been introduced to the velvety pleasures of the female genitalia until I was at least 20 years old.

Early sexual exposure is nothing new to this new generation. that's because for for them sex is not dirty. But public. Everything, including sex, has to be displayed and shared on You-Tube. For them somehow nothing is real unless someone else is watching it on a computer screen or TV. Because TV and computing and text messaging is the only way these kids know how to relate to the world.

I didn't want to expose myself today, I just wanted to hang out and party on Fat Tuesday because I support the Katrina victims. And because I like getting drunk in public. Not because I have some kind of sick voyeur fetish. Instead I payed a 10 dollar cover to stand in line. The celebration at Fat Tuesday's on Mill Avenue consisted of paying a cover and then waiting in line for an hour and a half to get inside the actual club for overpriced frozen girly drinks.

I've never felt comfortable in lines or around groups of people. There is something unnatural and bothersome to me in the gatherings of people. So many of them. Happy. My EX used to get pissed at me, because I would embarrass her in line at Safeway. But I only acted inappropriately in line in order to make all the other people in line feel as uncomfortable as I felt around them. And I think it works.

So while my friends and I were content to simply drink a beer and complain to each other about the slow moving line so many of the Y'ers were not. Instead they got their nasty on. That's Generation Y. Always positive. Gen Y has zero attention span and no desire to see the dark lining of any cloud. A few bored fat girls danced for us while we waited in line. And by dancing I mean mimicking things paid hookers are often too timid to try.

I think these girls fail to understand that the thrill men find from watching women lick each other or fake anally penetrate each other is the the thrill of dirty behavior. But wen you copy that "dirty" behavior so self-consciously it completely ruins it for the true pervert. You can't "own" degrading behavior. It ceases to be degrading at that point.

But the only thing that really makes dirty dancing unwatchable is fat chicks. Fat chicks have completely taken over the promiscuous displays of their generation. I realize most Americans are fat, but I thought we all were superficial enough to agree that only attractive people should be allowed to flaunt their stuff in public.

Last night at Fat Tuesday violated that agreement, and thereby lived up to it's name. Fat Tuesday with its massive veined breasts exposed. Fat chicks grinding away and hopping. Red lined bellies from too tight pants exposed by too short tops. Tops that wanted to be lifted at any excuse. Tempe is not New Orleans. Nobody should expect that the cheap beads they give out to everyone at the entrance of a corporate sponsored sex-o-rama would be able to entice any of our Tempe girls to uncover.

But I was wrong about that. I was totally wrong. Also wrong about things like how fat chicks are actually human beings. Mental Agents with desires. I had always assumed like most psychopaths that people so different from me have no human agency. They may jump like frogs when shocked with electricity, but not from an inner volition. To me fat humans had always seemed merely responsive to stimuli. See Big Mac. Insert Big Mac.

It's now all so disconcerting.