Consequences: Post 21

Posted by Gert

Save us from the stupid people !

They are all around us. Everywhere you look. Literally. Stupid.


I have very firm views of what ‘stupid’ is. I suspect that the most precise definition would be ‘not me’.

Sometimes it’s what they say. Or what they do. Or what they don’t say. Or fail to do. Or just the way they are. Or their persona.

The way I see it, it is the 21st Century. We live in an information-rich society. When I were a lass we had to go to the library to find out information, and then read it by candlelight. Now we have computers and the internet, with its own internal lighting system…

Nah, this post isn’t working. I want to write something amazingly witty and insightful, or both. Pithy, zeitgeist defining.

Too stupid for that.

But part of me still blames Elton John and David Furnish for the end of the best relationship I have ever had.

I really wanted to write the meaningless sex post. Not that I’ve had any sex – meaningless or meaningful or otherwise – in the past few weeks. Too stupid, you see. Or if I had, I don’t think I’d be blogging it. Especially not on Troubled Diva’s blog. Good grief, no. That would never do. Although I reckon if you had a scandalous shag, the best place to write about it would be on someone else’s blog.

But, exactly how do you blog sex? “I lay there and he moved towards me with a towering pulsating tumescence which he clinically inserted into my BBC journalists look away now.”

Or how would that read in txt msg “He fkd me i scrmd he cme i dt thr woz a wtpth he fl aslp n snrd i ly awk thn i ndd 2 p” Mills and Boon, you know my e-addy.

But the really strange thing about sex is, the stupid people manage to do it. It has always fascinated me, how did people know in the old days. I think I found out by watching TV, coupled with tittle-tattle with the girls gathered round the sandpit. But, in the old days they didn’t have sandpits. And yet you hear even in this day and age of couples who don’t understand why they can’t conceive, and it turns out he’s been sticking it in her belly-button.

I digress, as always. It’s hard this is, as the actress said to the bishop.

I always feel there’s a story waiting to be told, about the actress and the bishop. Probably, like the curate’s egg, parts of it are excellent.

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