Anchormen and Real Sex: two for the weekend.

First, thanks to everyone who picked up a copy of "What's Shakin' in the Men's Room." I hope you enjoy it.

I haven't made it to the computer much this week. So here are a couple of posts. I'm off to get current on my favorite blogs. Have a great weekend!

Aliens and Anchormen

Every once in a while I'll catch my local news broadcaster looking in the wrong direction while he's talking. His attention is somewhere off camera. I always think "this guy's and idiot!" until I catch myself waving at the television trying to capture his attention.

You might think the newscaster has simply lost track of which camera is "live." But I like to imagine that one of his colleagues -- the weatherman, perhaps -- is making a crude gesture off camera. Maybe he's mooning him, or drawing dirty pictures on the digital weather map. That would be fun.

Or else, maybe the newscaster is really taking his lines from an invading alien who has the poor bastard in his laser sighting, because the aliens are using the broadcast to spread disinformation to fool us humanoids before the big invasion.

Real Sex. Really?

HBO is running a series called Real Sex. It's a voyeuristic look into the sex habits of modern- day Americans. It features beautiful people without an ounce of body fat or body hair prancing around in zany costumes on elaborate sets reminiscent of a Roman sex orgy. Everybody's fit, free, healthy, happy, uninhibited and having a wonderful time while discovering new facets of their sexuality.

The show's entertaining enough. But it isn't exactly real sex, is it? I know they haven't been stealing material from my sex life. Hell, my wildest masturbatory fantasies don't get much more sophisticated than the grocery clerk discounting canned peas wearing nothing but her Safeway smock. That’s right baby -- work that price gun. Work it! Anyway, it’s safe to say that 20 people dressed up in ancient Roman battle armor and riding each other like horses isn't real sex. It just doesn't happen that often. It’s staged. It’s contrived. When I watch a show called “Real Sex,” I want to see real sex.

I'd like to watch a series that takes the notion of real sex seriously. Real Real Sex -- a voyeuristic look at what really happens in the bedroom. How about a 240-pound hairy assed bastard climbing on his reluctant wife to claim his monthly ration? As she disappears under the blob she utters a muffled, “make it quick, Stan.” Stan fires off a few pelvic thrusts before developing a leg cramp, rolling off the missus and passing out into a beer-and-chip-fueled slumber. Afterward, the show producers can interview the stars, just like they do in Real Sex. ?

“Well, Stan cleaned out the garage today like I've been nagging him to do for a month now. So I was obligated to let him crawl on me and do his business. He knows I'm not a big fan of the oral sex but he always asks and I always say to him, 'don't I do enough with the cooking can cleaning?’”

See, this show practically writes itself.

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