... down a hole.

"Rarr!  Your big, sloppy cunt stinks like shit, where the fuck have you been?" 
"Fuck you!  You limp, skinny-dicked asshole that couldn't find a G-spot with a GPS and three Lifelines!  I’m a fucking queen, romeo!"
"Yeah, but I’m The King, baby!" 
"You want to get married then, King?”
"That's fresh!  What, hang up my game, give up my pride, that type of shit?"
"Oh, just shut up and fuck this sweet, Savanna ass… I'm so wifey right now!"
"Baby, I’m not a one pussy cat, you know that...  shit, that’s ty-eet… no, no, I'm going to eat your bastard children and fuck your sister, that’s what I do, you hear me?"
"Whatever, are you filming?  Is that your agent in the Land Rover over there? I hope he’s fucking filming!  How do I look?"
"Like a virgin, baby, like a virgin."
"God I love you!"
"I love you too, baby!"
"I do, I so do! Do you?"
“Sure, why not, baby, why not.”

Lions don’t marry.  They don’t even plan, let alone nuptials.  It's just not in their DNA.  Lions eat, fuck, and fight by the whims of their instinct in an ephemeral ballet of carnal behavior orchestrated by Nature with brutal harmony.

Sure, unions take place in the Animal Kingdom, some even last a lifetime, but they happen without written contracts, spoken agreements, or engagement rings, they begin without forethought and end without anticipation or regret, naturally.

Then, naturally, we have Humans, with our burgeoning temporal lobes, undertaking spurious suppositions of the morrow and overwhelming ourselves with the problems of perpetual prosperity.  “Nature and DNA be damned!”  We chant.  Fucking animals.     

By our trademark neurosis, notions of private property and its systematic governance were born, followed by appointments and sophisticated declarations of ownership, like, "MINE!"

Of course, many animals are territorial and seek a certain degree of control over their environments; it's not just Man.  The difference is, other species are limited by their direct capacity to inflict bodily harm, or the "SHEILDS UP" scent of their urine and the resulting force field it generates around their property.

Though pissing on things has remained appealing to human males, it wasn't long before they came to realize its limitations in protecting their stuff and they began to experiment with ways to ensure ownership through both space AND time.

Over the ages, humans have devised many inventive ways to manage property in their physical absence; these include the “NO TRESSPASSING” sign, land mines, texting "HE'S MINE BITCH!", and marriage.

Traditionally, marriage has worked to maintain private property by integrating individuals--primarily females and offspring--under a common label, a 'surname.'  This idea represents an elaborate system in which men essentially write their name on stuff, to be recognized throughout time by "ANY THAT DARE OPPOSE!"

In the event of a violation of said stuff, a man may simply call upon the “Touch-My-Shit-And-Die, Police,” provide evidence of ownership, and be compensated accordingly.    

Outside the practical intent of its design, marriage is often attempted in a zealous proclamation of love.  The intention behind this behavior is apparently the desire of two, star-crossed lovers to become the property of one another!

Historically, this has proven a bad idea; similar to getting a tattoo emblazoned with a lover’s name, issues arise when the novelty wears thin.  For like a tattoo, a spouse is often on ones ass and hard to get rid of, in which case one must either continue to love them or spend copious time lamenting a poor decision.  And without the consolation of ample private property, such lament is often more than a human can bare without the habitual consumption of alcohol.

To impassioned lovers: love is best understood as ones first attempt at riding a bicycle, and marriage that fatal, first look back.  For as we start off, riding merrily along in a euphoric buzz of fear and excitement that may last for a considerable distance, it’s that first look back, that first contravention of momentum, that sends us tumbling to the ground.  The moral: just ride that shit [love] till the wheels fall of, and never look back!

Where were we?  Oh, yes.

Even though the private property vested through marriage has traditionally included the wife herself--an appalling idea to modern feminists--most women, including the unshaven, picket-bearing variety, unknowingly enjoy various civil side effects from this arcane institution.

In the ‘old days,’ when sex roles were clearly defined and damsels were often in distress, marriage made more sense—you scratch my back, spend a few hours a week on yours, you cook, clean, I’ll pay the mortgage, crack some skulls if needs be, then put on my tux and dance a jazzy little number, for I’m the man, and you’re the woman.

Women were content with this arrangement because males that could keep it going, in spite of competition from other males, represented some damn good seed, ensuring a woman's offspring would grow up ‘just like their father,’ thereby increasing the chances for the survival of her genes, and being selected for Dancing With The Stars. 

But this is the Golden Age of the Metro-sexual.  Social roles are androgynous and the sexes are less codependent than ever.  What once was a common way of life is becoming increasingly foreign. 

Nowadays, young women think a 'kitchen colander' is something they can use to write down yoga appointments, so the notion of women as “domestic” partners is really a misnomer.

Yes, survival today is all about ones career.  And In the modern workplace women are generally as smart, competent and driven as men when it comes to competing for status and financial independence, characteristics which endow them with a comfortable level of solidarity throughout most First World economies.

So the old notion of ‘Man as Provider’ now seems outdated.  Even ‘Man as Protector’ is becoming unnecessary, since Oprah Winfrey and key-chain pepper spray can effectively do that job.  

A modern, independent woman can become wealthy, socially admired, and easily protect herself from lesser males by bad-mouthing them on Facebook, or simply dropping or denying their "friend status."  She may also select for herself the finest, 'designer seed' money can buy--I believe there’s now a department in Nordstrom that caters to this, Conception Couture--quenching her biological need for childbirth with ruthless efficiency, and without an actual man. 

It’s no wonder that over 50% percent of marriages fail, a successful marriage now being a purely random event, a crapshoot. 

If this fact gets you in a bad way, try taking out you ambivalence on someone’s crap-chute, your own perhaps; such practice is often seen as a first step toward embracing true sexual liberation AND juicing up a failing marriage, whether it's with ones spouse or a $500 hooker ordered directly to ones hotel room at the Wynn.  So I’ve heard.

If you’re a woman, your inner princess may be affronted by the notion of marriage being dead, since generations of fairy tales and reality TV have conditioned your sensibilities and restrained your critical thinking with regard to this "blessed union."  It's true, we men used to see a point to marriage, but since  it's become a TV show and lost all intrinsic value,  it's time to let it go.  Aren't you just a little relieved? 

If you’re a man, however, you’re thinking, “Marriage is dead? Thank riced.”  And you’ll be content with the prospect of living life in the day-to-day marauding we affectionately term "The Meat Market," that is until you get old and pot-bellied, at which time you’ll take your $10,000 life-savings—the money you’ve saved from not being married or financially responsible—and move to southeast Asia.

There you’ll live independently for a dollar a day in a marble bathroom surrounded by 16 year-old whores where in perpetual drunkenness you’ll magically reinvent yourself into the most respected novelist since Hemingway.  Or maybe that’s just me.

Just remember, Gentlemen, more enjoyable than protecting your own pride, is fucking with someone else's, civilly of course.  Marry on, suckers!
                                                                                                                                   -JPF

Well, two weeks later and MTPT #1 has two comments.  It's time to break bread. 

Since visits to Brainbooger.com  are comprised of a philosopher that sees stock trades in every post, Google's mistakes, and a mother's quietly brief and longing scans for some heartwarming and innocent penmanship--perhaps a prequel to The Tale Of Peter Rabbit, Bunny Love--left aghast by alternate reality, we'll all have to make do. 

Let it be a reminder to the nimble young minds out there whom have yet to be enlightened by years of alcoholism, that pointless self amusement is ones greatest satisfaction during droughts of popularity. 

So, without further adieu we set the sails of story by the winded whims of a straw man, presenting the most vainglorious exposition of self indulgence to become wavelength since the last episode.

As promised, Episode #2 shaped by the comments left for #1--which amounted to Ben's gibberish about the stock market--... lolz, shout-out to B for his consistent contributions--GOOD ON YA MATE!!