I scan the bar for people I know and almost immediately spot Kelly dancing with some guy who enjoys using a massive amount of hair gel and possesses the complexion of a carrot. Kelly does not see me, and my opinion is thus far unaffected; wary maybe. After a few more drinks I’m less concerned with Kelly because I now have to concentrate to even pretend to pay attention to Jane’s current thoughts on feminist film theory. When I do glance over I see an orange hand slide up Kelly’s skirt as she drools all over the neck of its owner. I am asked about the dominance of female heroines in film and its perpetuation of women as sex objects. His hand goes further up her skirt as she slips her hand down his pants. The industry BTW is a bunch of old men producing films to pave the way for a new generation of men who will dance with girls I was out with last night, gel their hair heavily and grope said girls at clubs, bars, parties, etc… all because in “Alien” Sigourney Weaver went into cryogenic sleep wearing panties and a skeezy tank top after defeating the phallic festival that is the Giger Alien with a gun, which is the phallus that she finally embraces as she moves her hand up and down in his pants, in the end passing out in a Disney princess glass coffin, waiting for a man who would take her into the corner of a dark bar and fuck her to come and wake her from her long slumber.
September 10, 2012
Excerpt from Degenerate Triangle