Watching the Victoria’s Secret Fashion show on CBS the Wednesday before last confirmed the following stereotypes:
1. Models are stupid.
2. Models, rather than having astoundingly sexy bodies, barely have bodies at all. They really are just coathangers.
3. The uniformity of the models’ bodies makes watching a lot of them in succession merely banal—the nudity, or near nudity, is not only not surprising nor exciting, it is simply uniform, like watching a succession of paper clips march down the runway with impossible underwear attached.
4. Yet, knowing all this, and realizing it even as I watch, I watch. I can’t keep my eyes off of it, can’t keep the drool from pooling on the carpet.
5. Except when Sting came on. Then I got up to get a beer.
Wait, I missed the part that explained why you kept watching.
I like to do little field studies of my roommates and their television habits. It’s very revealing as to its addictive qualities. Why do they watch the guy yelling at them to buy his cars? Why do they watch Renee Stevens lisping her way through a corny commercial?
Although the drool indicates something else. That lizard brain?
It’s merely Stan. He’s cornered the market on Reptiliad Theory.
He’s sutured to his couch.
His “clicker” is merely an extension of his Remote Control.
We’re not even sure anymore if we love the sinner—