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The Teabagging Equation
The following is what I hope to be presenting to the Academy next year in Sweden (it involves some high-level math, but you should be able to stay with me if you're at least somewhat well-versed in Boolean algebra or calculus):
S = k / T
Let me elucidate.
The number of soufflés (S) your wife or girlfriend bakes is inversely related to the times you teabag (T) her.
(k is the mathematical constant, which is either Pi, or the number of testicles present in the starting front offensive line of the Nittany Lions football team, minus, of course, left tackle Bronco "One Nut" Lefkowitz.)
Okay, so there isn't a Nobel Prize in mathematics, but I'm hoping the sheer genius of my equation will make them reconsider. You see, I really believe there's an inverse correlation between your wife or girlfriend's cooking and the amount of action you get.
I'll get to my reasoning in a second, but you and the Academy should realize I didn't come by this equation easily. It took half a cigar and a whole glass of scotch's worth of contemplation. It came to me while I was pondering fat people.
I have nothing against fat people. They're hardly my esthetic cup of tea (or anybody else's for that matter, except for the occasional chubby chaser), but I don't care. As long as fat doesn't become the "in" thing for women, I'm the ultimate lifestyle Libertarian; do what the hell you want to do. Everybody has his or her preferred drug and food is the oldest.
Still, I'm somewhat puzzled by the sheer number and sheer bulk of the fat people in these here United States.
I realize that it's partly a cause of poverty: poor people eat cheap food, and cheap food is calorically dense and nutritionally poor — a bad combination.
The Psychology
But there are also psychological reasons. I have a good friend who's a clinical psychologist involved in obesity studies. He's found nearly a one-to-one relationship between clinical obesity and sexual abuse.
In other words, obese people for whom food is an addiction were almost universally sexually abused as children. They simply ate — and ate and ate and ate — to become less sexually attractive to creepy Uncle Bob who was always more than happy to tuck the little ones in at night. Their fat became their squishy armor.
That's pretty damn depressing, but that observation has to do with really obese people, the kind of fat people that you see on FOX News being fork-lifted off their couches and carted to the hospital in creaky-springed ambulances while small children point and puff out their cheeks and bellies in cruel mockery of the fat bastard swaying precariously over their heads.
That's not the direction I want to go in, but it did ping-pong my thoughts towards the conventional fatties who are still ambulatory enough to go to the grocery store, the Jack in the Box, or the all-you-can-eat buffet and don't have to rely on a Boy Scout troop to lever them out of bed with some old wooden oars.
I started thinking about a couple I know. R sends me emails all the time lamenting the demise of his sex life with F.
They only "do it" about once a month, and it's always in total darkness and it usually consists of R squeezing out a dog-poo sized dollop of KY Jelly onto his hand because his woman ain't known no natural lubrication for a long piece now. They closed up that ramshackle vagina years ago. Put up signs for the kids to stay away. Once in a while, though, at night, you can hear the coyotes singing their lonely song.
Anyhow, R invariably fumbles around to unbutton F's tattered flannel nightgown, probes around to find the right hole, and then slaps down that fistful of KY jelly like Boo Radley's dad filling up that knothole with cement.
He then climbs aboard, makes a few semi-coordinated thrusts that are more like an epileptic seizure than fucking, and then literally rolls off her ponderous body and falls asleep before he hits the Serta mattress.
So F's not to thrilled with her sex life because R is as skillful and attentive in bed as a drunken John who just laid out 50 bucks for a sleepy fuck and R isn't too enthused either, probably because he's sleeping with some fat toad of an alien who obviously kidnapped his real wife, the svelte one he married. Never mind that he's also a fat toad.
But R and F don't discuss their boring, lackluster, somewhat repugnant sex life with each other. Instead, they eat. She has index card boxes full of recipes. The middle shelf in the kitchen cupboard is sagging under the weight of all those damn cook books.
Every activity is based around food. Saturday mornings are for pancakes and sausages. Sunday afternoons are for all-you-can-eat brunches. Monday is Chinese buffet day, and Wednesday is for fried chicken and pie and the quality of each day is determined more by cream, sugar, butter, and crispy golden-brown batter than it is by sunshine, human interaction, mental stimulation, or sex.
I swear they wait for friends and acquaintances to die so they get to gorge on funeral-fare like casseroles and those Jell-O dishes with the marshmallows and bananas and other crap floating around in them.
Birthdays, anniversaries, and every Hallmark-card invented holiday are a regular Roman orgy of culinary delights, and hey, F, you'd better start picking out the cookies and pastries and candies and snicker-doodles because the holidays are just around the corner and you don't want to be caught with your elasti-band pants down when Jesus' birthday rolls around.
I Have My Lovely Food . . . Who Needs Sex, Anyway?
So R and F get fatter and fatter, and their sex life gets less and less satisfying because, frankly, they turn each other's blubbery stomachs.
But that's okay, they've always got the food; the food makes them forget about the frustration, the guilt, the rotten sex.
And that's where I think America is with their food and their fat. Rodney Dangerfield even touched on this once:
I'm at the age where food has taken the place of sex in my life. In fact, I've just had a mirror put over my kitchen table.
Only Rodney was talking about old age. Nowadays, food is taking the place of sex in Americans in their twenties, thirties, and forties.
Sure, there's "sex" all around us, but it's like those damn commercials for beer and Pepsi and even Wrigley's gum: those people in the commercials are always having fun on the beach and at wild parties and doubling their pleasure with beautiful twins, but the truth is the rest of us are sitting at home on weekends watching them piano cart that fat bastard out his picture window while we're munching on Cheetohs.
It's the same with sex. It's more elusive than popular culture would suggest. That juicy fruit is hanging low on the branch, but it's just a little higher than most can jump.
So they're frustrated. Their sex life is nothing like what they see on TV. They become acutely aware of what they're missing so the disappointment grows.
But fat Americans don't discuss sex. They're too shy, or they have Puritanical sex that's a real snore.
And so they eat. And eat, and eat, and eat. And then they have less sex, because I swear, that leather outfit I bought you from the Adam and Eve website makes you look like an unfortunate feral pig that got caught in a discarded plastic six-pack holder when it was a piglet and then grew up around it so that its body is grossly malformed into a forced hourglass shape.
But other than that, it makes you look hot, honey. Honest. Cross my heart and hope to die (soon).
Oh, the Guilt of it All . . . Pass Me the Fajitas
My psychologist friend, while he doesn't have any solid data to support it, notes that the Catholic-church functions he attends have a disproportionately higher number of fat people in attendance.
Does religion make you fat? No, but religious guilt might, especially if sexual urges are redirected towards food.
But it's all part of the same psychosexual baggage. Frustration, guilt, boredom, bad communication skills, it all leads to bad sex and I believe that a lot of that bad sex leads to good eating, a whole lot of good eating.
So if you're married, I contend that the amount you're getting is inversely related to the number of cookbooks your wife has in the cupboard. The more obsessed your wife is with cooking and food — and the more obsessed you are with eating what she cooks — the less satisfying your sex life.
And if she has a subscription to Gourmet or Bon Appetit? Brother, you'd best join the Vienna Boys Choir because you're a virtual castrati. But that's as much your fault as it is wifey's.
Hence my elegant equation:
S = k / T
Hence my eloquent theory:
The number of soufflés your wife or girlfriend has baked is inversely related to the times you teabag her.
I'm sure there are plenty of exceptions to the rule where people are slim despite being good in the kitchen and good in bed. And then, of course, there are the couples who actually incorporate food in their lovemaking, like Kim Basinger and Mickey Rourke in 9 1/2 Weeks, Seth from Superbad who air bones Jules in home economics class while she's preparing tiramisu, or maybe George Costanza, who considered pastrami to be the most sensual of the all the salted, cured lunchmeats.
Neither can I forget my beloved sushi restaurants where you eat raw fish off a naked babe acting as a platter, but I can see how that might lead to more frustration and ergo, more maguro.
Oh, I don't know. All my psychological theorizing is probably just a bunch of horseshit paté. Maybe people are fat because they just like to eat. It might just be that simple, but that equation just doesn't seem to add up.
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