the metaphysics of spandex.

An age-old puzzle/paradox/conundrum/[insert your choice of technical term with which to coax sociologists into bed (with you of course, though some will prefer watching them sociologists having at each other and keeping both and either at safe distances such as buried 20,000 leagues under the sea together with George Foreman in berserk mode with an endless supply of oxygen and a steady diet of asparagus designed to sustain said mode; but I can’t see how anything you say will ever be sufficient for anyone to fuck another person other than you – as it is it’s difficult enough getting yourself shags with only your mouth sans that classified as unnatural to the law and goddamned heavenly to the majority of the human population) here] has been plaguing the definitive personifications of the epitome of knowledge, the extreme gurus of the marriage between epistemology and ontology, the sultans of swing, the piper at the gates of dawn, the master blaster of the plaster duster, etc.:

What’s the metaphysical constitution of reality as we know it and what’re some of the implications of any of the attempted answers to this question with regards to existentialism?

Ok my apologies to current victims of eyeball-rolling and escapement of bodily fluids in foam form from the orifice due to overexposure to, as it is, my day-to-day dealings of shit like that. What the REAL puzzle is:

Why do men look fucked up in spandex and sand together?

I mean, you do gawk (and of course you do more than gawk if you’re camped with the ‘Testosterone ‘R Us’ club) when women don (barely a technically-correct term, considering what little there is, ontologically, on the part of the don-nee) their bathing suits and strut around in the sand, but you do, at the same time, find something inherently wrong with someone stripped down to something the size and shape of panties similarly stepping about on the beach. Is it the legs? The asses? The incredibly long hair sheathing them legs affording a year-round impregnable fortress against ultra-violet rays?

So we can imagine women with said hair, and clean-shaved men (this latter image is more unsettling and will probably fail probability tests and refer to a null set, but for the sake of the argument let’s all be fair and assume its plausibility by imagining it as some sort of a thought experiment), but the problem still exists. The obvious candidate at this point will be the bulge. But what if you’ve got someone who’s victim to a freak accident involving 2 grapes and a half-nibbled banana and the part of the anatomy frequently referred to as 'where the sun doesn’t shine'; who’s also otherwise America’s Next Top Model? Ok bad example about the model; I mean, have you seen the competitors that one’s churning out? But you know what I mean. I conclude by copping out as usual: non-natural properties. That’s as close to a ‘I-have-no-idea-whatsoever-and-I-don’t-really-give-a-flying-fuck’ line of answer if there ever was one. And if only Desmond read this. Hah. He’ll be turning over his proverbial grave, if he even had one in the first place. As it is he won’t forgive me and my smugness for Nagarjuna for years yet, I’ll imagine.

On a totally unrelated note, it seems like shit is approaching critical mass again. And so the cycle starts anew, right on cue, as if operating on clockwork.

I hope I miss the ringing and oversleep.