02/02/2000
Mean

Did you realize that there's tons and tons of cheerleader porn available on the internet? It's true! It's an honest to god fetish - a cheerleader fetish.

How strange. I've got a theory here. The only kind of person who would have a cheerleader fetish is the same kind of person who never actually talked to a cheerleader in school, be it high school or college. And the internet, as we all know, caters to that kind of person.

I'm basing this theory on myself, of course. I've known lots of cheerleaders. They don't do a thing for me. If you've never known one, though, I suppose you could build them up in your mind.

I mean, sure, everyone likes a short skirt, and a panty-flash is a fine thing. Really, though, you can see those things in normal life, too.

The whole cheerleader thing just doesn't get my sexual pot boilin', if you know what I mean. A few years ago Sonya considered dressing as a cheerleader for Mardi Gras and went so far as to make a cheerleading outfit. Nothing. Zip. Nada. She was cute and all, but it wasn't a dream come true or anything.

If you're gonna have a fetish, have a fetish already: spike heels, piercings, rhinocerous suits. Make it really, really weird. Junior high boys want to have sex with cheerleaders, for god's sake.




Last week I took a test drive in a 2000 Mitsubishi Eclipse. It was a nice car, but the salesman was slimy. We'll call him Jeb.

Jeb told me the car was good for "the nightlife." I knew nightlife, for him, was cruising past the junior high, wearing shades and giving his sickly grin to the girls getting on the bus.

Jeb is probably one of those guys who goes to Mardi Gras with $10,000 worth of camera and video equipment strapped to him. These guys stand on the sidewalk under the balconies on Bourbon Street and take pictures of the girls revealing themselves on the balconies across the street. They don't catch beads, they don't go to parades, they probably don't like New Orleans food. They just take pictures of boobs. They're some of the most pathetic people on earth. Chronic masturbators, all of them.

Then, when we got out of the car, Jeb said, "well, the best thing would be for you to take it home today."

Honestly, Jeb. The guy with the loud jacket and the toupee down the street at the rinky-dink used car lot doesn't even used that line anymore. You might as well ask me what it's going to take for me to drive it home tonight.

And he keeps calling me, which I actually kind of like. I've gotten lots of fawning, ass-kissing voice mail over the last two weeks, but Jeb has been the most persistent. I finally talked to him today. I crisply told him that I had not made a decision yet, but that when I did and if I decided on the Eclipse that I would call him. He kept trying to sell, but I repeated myself. He got the message.

I figure I owe it to everyone who has ever purchased a car to make a few salesmen hustle a little bit.




I saw a winner the other night.

I picked Sonya up at work, as we were going to buy groceries. I was driving down Front Street and this guy was parked in the lane next to the Morgan Keegan building, totally blocking traffic. I pulled up right behind him and honked, but he never moved so I had to go around. I studied him, though, so that if I saw him again I might kill him.

Get this, guys: a black Mustang, super-shiny. He had a ratty face, a rather severe mullet, a tiny little West-Memphis-Circa-1990 moustache, and a turtleneck with gold chains on the outside.

"He's pickin' up his woman," Sonya guessed.

"And she wears floral print dresses all year long," I said, "with a big bow in back."

"Yup," Sonya agreed. We so had this guy nailed down, identity-wise.




Thank you for listening to the Meanspirited Remix of wonderland 2.





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