Break-Up City, Population: A Lot.

What proportion of break-ups are amicable, do you think? One-half? A quarter? Ten percent? Five percent? Five total?

My guess is fewer than one in twenty bust-ups are mutually agreeable to the point where the two people involved are happy with the decision after two weeks. I base this on my best analysis of the asymmetry of most relationships, which in normal language means that one person is always more into it than the other. That's the point of stress in all our dealings on this quasi-romantic level - inequality of expectation.

There is no way around this notion that most relationships are pretty much doomed from the beginning. If you're a serial monogamist, you're living in a neighbourhood full of cul-de-sacs and regular, non-French dead-ends. It's the way the town-planner - the devil himself - designed it. If you want a continual stream of new lovers in your life, the price you pay is the angst and dislocation of perpetually reaching the end of the road, sometimes pretty soon after taking the turn.

Sure, some roads don't reveal themselves as going nowhere until quite some time later. That means when you do come to the "Wrong Way: Turn Around" sign, the break-up will be even more tearful, the recriminations way more cutting, and the hurt much longer lasting.

And I don't buy the whole schtick about women being more affected by a busted relationship than men. There are cold, callous women just as there are flippant, uncaring men, for whom a break-up is just another speed bump. Men and women process and reflect the consequences of the end of an affair (in the widest sense) differently. From that stems the different ways we communicate our emotions to the world. Even though men will use bravado through the loss, their dislocation is no less painful. Endless talking and re-hashing isn't our style.

There is a way out of this neo-modern hook-up and dump city. But for me to tell you would be presumptuous in the extreme.



Bottoms Up, Turn and Burners.

Friday Fluffer - Sporting Douchebags.

Integrity is considered an old-fashioned word in today's "progressive" culture. Finding the easy way out, lying, taking the money, choosing personal satisfaction over doing the right thing; these are the pathways to a thoroughly modern style of unapologetic fame-fueled douchebaggery.

There are plenty of bloodless narcissistic zombie heroes to go around. Today's is Lance Armstrong. No-one gives a shit about him, but I think of his children, and all the children who look up to all the celebrity zeroes who take what they can. The example set by famous people, in the way they treat their children, wives and husbands, affects us all, because famous people are the culture. Armstrong made you and me part of something smaller. What I cannot understand is how he can look into his kids' eyes. Does he not see a monster reflected?

And so we return to the pile of putrid dog vomit that is the Tiger Woods tale. The Mail Online has this story, claiming that Tiger and his ex-wife Elin are on the verge of reconciliation. She'll have him back in exchange for a $350 million no-cheating clause.

Yeah. There you go. The bedrock of any good home for a young family is created from a cash-backed good-behaviour bond. Not, say, from refraining from boffing any groupie who wandered along, instead spending the time in his hotel suite writing stories for his children, or otherwise doing something worthwhile. No, because now he's different, and has the collateral to prove it.



Bottoms Up, Culture Warriors.

Dating a Boson

Like everyone else, everything changed for me when I read that a bunch of smarties with a few billion dollars worth of kit discovered that the Higgs boson exists. Announced on the otherwise auspicious date of July 4, confirmation that such an animal lives outside mathematical equations is like the dawning of a new era.  

So it was with some disappointment in the following days that I observed little or no difference in the world outside the Large Hadron Collider ie: where you and I live. Drivers on the freeway behaved, as ever, like teenaged children on crack; mainstream media treated us, still, as teenaged children on Xanax; peace and understanding, yet again, failed to break out all over. Men and women sorta did, and sorta didn't, get each other. Everything changed, and it all actually remained the same.

But let's not despair at this, all is not lost. The good news is that TomKat are (is?) divorcing, so there's one more child out of danger, and Suri will be okay too. There is good evidence - from Tom's three exes - that women turning thirty who have children start to see life with more clarity. The gooey love-sauce fame-and-looks obsession of their twenties gives way to the reality of doing the right thing by the children, which in this case amounts to rescuing them from a cult. 

It seems about right to me that no-one should be allowed to marry until their thirtieth birthday. Better still would be if we were helped to understand why not, and chose not to of our own volition. Too many high-school sweethearts marry at twenty-two and find themselves divorced a few years later. How can the children of these unions overcome this model of parenthood?

In that light, I advocate the twenties as the Dating Decade - the more, the better. No marriage, just ten years of figuring out yourself and how you fit with others. It's possible this might have more impact than applied particle physics, as much as atom smashing underground in Switzerland might give you a hard-on.


Bottoms Up, Physicists.

The Marriage Spider: Wombatgram #21

Try as you might, there's no killing the Marriage Spider.

Click on Wombatgram for all the hairy details.

How to choose your wedding limousine service.




Bottoms  Up, Arachnophobes.


For all previous Wombatgrams, try the Wombatgram home page, above. 

Buffing Your Lucky

Here's a recipe:

  ~ Find one ripe woman whose divorce finalized within the last week.

  ~ Add five of her sorority sisters in town for the weekend.

  ~  Wrap all six in sexy dresses and tasty heels.

  ~ Supply them with two cars and designated drivers for the night. 

  ~ Marinate the ladies in quality vodka and just enough bar snacks.

Serve to any lecherous man within five-inch heel walking distance.

After a couple of hours and three nightspots, the mission of the night became clear - to find the recently singlefied Sister a new man. In essence, her married Greeks chat up whatever blokes they found with complete deniability - it's not for them, they're finding a new dude for her.

They're buffing her lucky. (Peals of uninhibited laughter.)








Bottoms Up, Pledgers.

Dames I Adore - Kate Gosselin

Kate's uterus is, I am reliably informed, now in the Uterus Hall of Fame. We men are intellectually aware of how one woman can have a litter of kids...and yet she remains the material of significantly awful nightmares. I have this vision of a never-ending expulsion of babies from between her legs.

However: Childbirth is but a tiny fraction of womanly skills, so let's not dwell. Even if I occasionally wake to the vision of Kate's vagina issuing new-borns like a barn-cat, that will not prevent me from seeing her for the woman she is and not a life-support system for that over-stretched cervix. Begone, obsession!

Kate is unfortunately defined by all the stuff we see surrounding her. Her ex-husband, for one, shouldn't be held against her. Neither should the decision to adopt a television network as her ninth child. And neither should the three plastic surgeons, the six agents, the fifteen hair stylists nor the fashion consultant on retainer influence us in our opinion.

Kate's a regular suburban girl who got lucky with fertility drugs. It's the same story the world over, as Angelina Jolie will tell you. Err, actually, that's not true, because Angelina's a nutburger and adopted....how many of those kids?

Anyway, Kate's attraction to me is all about her accessibility. She's the girl-next-door with whom we played pong-knuckle in tenth grade; she's got that sturdy fetlock look that regular guys recognize as valuable when pushing the mower; and darling Kate loves her false titties as much as any frottage aficionado.

Kate might be a bossy ball-buster, but there's so much more to adore. If you're reading this Kate, how about a make-out session and a little game of stink finger? You know you want it.



Bottoms Up, Octomoms!



Kate at her best from England's second-best newspaper [link]

Friday Fluffer - Happy Ending

Sentimentalist that he is, the penis enjoys a happy ending.

As with much involving dicks, technique is important, not least when raising the delicate subject of a happy ending with one's massage therapist. Here's how not to do it:

"...Al Gore fondled and groped her during a massage session ...describing...the former Vice President as a giggling "crazed sex poodle" who gave a "come hither" look before pouncing on her in a Portland hotel suite."

Full article from the Smoking Gun.[link]<------SFW worth reading.

The picture of a naked, corpulent Al Gore as a crazed sex poodle gives happy endings a bad name. No wonder Tipper wants out.



Bottoms Up, Happy Enders!


wombat@kissnblog.com

Pic from here.[link]

Siege

A marriage or LTR might be done, over, cooked and stinking up the joint, but no-one is allowed to say so until one or other of the participants says it first.

This public defense of the widely held private opinion is the same mentality that those under siege take. Stalingrad in World War II springs to mind, or Boston in 1775/6.

Gradually the food runs short, so less and less to eat becomes acceptable. (Marriage equivalent: progressively less communication.)

Gradually the fuel runs short, so colder days and nights are taken for granted. (Marriage equivalent: sex becomes less frequent, more perfunctory.)

Gradually the participants daydream about better times, willing the reality to be different. (Marriage equivalent: resorting to drink or drugs or anonymous sex outside the relationship.)

To outside observers this is as obvious as Mick Jagger's lips. We know what's happening in the lives of those close to us nearly as soon as they do, and acknowledge it (out of their hearing) much sooner.

No-one outside a relationship can ever know all the ins-and-outs, but dispassionate onlookers have the advantage of perspective. Nature apparently sets us up to defend indefensible positions - or nearly indefensible, because although the Americans won the siege of Boston, the Germans failed to take Stalingrad. But do you really want to go through that kind of epic horror?[link]





Revolutionary War spy pic from here [link]