Smell the feather.
FTVS is pleased to introduce you to Jacques-Yves Perichon, our most new columnist. Jacques is an expert in all things that require advice, so please send your questions to him at post [at] fortunathatviciousslut [dot] org. This is Jacques’ first column.
A reader asks: Jacques, why is baseball considered the American national pastime?
It has been confirmed by a web domain highly ranked on the internets that birding, not baseball, is the number one sport in the American states country. Oui, birding. And not necessarily the kind that involves fucking a chicken. Oui, instead, it is the quiet, almost reverential act of voyeuristically stalking well-toned avian specimens in their native habitat. This shit has taken flight in America’s conscience.
I encountered a bird this weekend that evoked the unfettered non-sexual admiration of the disciplined birding community. The event to which I infer regards an exotic Argentine creature of flight whose symmetric curvature and sophisticated socialization was matched in beauty only by her suggestively scant outer coat of feathers; her sluttish beckoning, though barely discernible to a less accomplished birder, was robustly perceived by my well-honed faculties. I know birds only as well as I know the vagina, and this is very well.
It seems that my intellectual prowdness and charismatic cadence so thoroughly enchanted this bird that she invited me from the field in which I watched her, back to her nest, presumptively to couple. She mentioned nothing of a post-bone shoe shopping excursion, but I have now matured to the understanding that sexual coupling is ritually followed by such implicit and emasculating obligations.
I did arrive at her nest, unawares of the fate that would befall me. For her camouflage did not allow me to predict whether this was a predatory or herbivorous creature. We ate, we danced, we drank, we pecked. But we did not mate. Penetration, of the sort that involves a cock and a vagina, did not commence.
You see, dear readers, I have tenuously sided with the senseless masses of birders in my loathing of the mindless hunting of innocent meat, which is inevitably followed by what a political scientist might refer to as a “Loser’s Dilemma,” if said political scientologist were to have half the capacities of mind and body that were noble-obliged upon me at birth.
What is this Loser’s Dilemma, you ask?
It is the option of either: A) ritualistic self-castration (ie: acceptance of girlfriend-like relations) or B) guilt plagued consciousness leading to a desire for external satiation of of inner emptiness (ie: chemical induced celebratory suicide-like acts).
No, friends, for the rest of this season of sexual discontent, Jacques-Yves Perichon is unavailable for either of these two options. I am past this phase by many days and several hours and quite a number of minutia. Bird hunting is out and the transcendent passivity of bird watching is my hopeful future.
I assure you, dear reader, that your question has thus been sufficiently explored, diddled, and subsequently, answered.
