Fizzy gussets

Back away slowly, avoid eye contact.I haven’t read Twilight. I haven’t seen the movies. I don’t consider this to be ‘closed-minded’. Just as I know I wouldn’t enjoy sitting down to slit my wrists in front of the first season of Glimore Girls or the new Pink album, I know I wouldn’t enjoy Twilight. I am not the target market, being that I am not the owner of a set of ovaries or raging hormones. I think everyone is comfortable with that.
I accept that this means I’m not really in a position to criticize the books or films (christ knows there’s enough peeps already doing that, and when you sell 80 million copies, you gotta be doing something right, yeah?). But the Twilight ‘phenomenon’? You bet your ass I can lay the smack down on that shit.
So I sat down to eat my breakfast the other day, and somehow the TV was on and an Oprah ‘Eclipse’ special started just as I began choking on my Weetbix. Terrifying. Not the screaming horde of teenaged girls – screaming girls are fine, they’ve been doing it since Beetlemania. We all do crrrrrazy things when we’re young; I have a criminal conviction to prove it (and yes ladies, going bananas over a fictional boy, no matter how sparkly or well-defined his abs are is kinda loco, but it’s all good).
But the mothers. Jesus H Christ on a bicycle. Imagine Colonel Kurtz whispering those words, lying bloated in a pool of his own blood, all machetefied.
“The mothers… the mothers…”
Forty year old women literally fizzing in their gussets. Just publicly losing their shit. They showed a clip of this one lady who was holding a little Eclipse launch party in her condo, complete with red cordial ‘blood’ in wine glasses and whatnot. She took the camera crew down into her dungeon where she’d set up a tribute shrine to Edward Cullen. Life-sized cardboard cutouts. Framed photos staring moodily from the walls, flowers, this weird little altar thing. Some serious pagan chops going on here. And I got thinking, ‘How would I feel if I was married to this fruitcake?’
Seriously, you invite the lads around for some Friday night poker, take them down to the basement for some brews and a few rounds of NLTH, and there’s a goddamn shrine to another man in there. A fictional, sparkly vampire man, no less.
In theory, by all laws of civilized society, these ‘Twilight-Moms’ should be pariahs. Look at the expressions on the faces of the women in the pic above. It’s akin to fucking rapture. Imagine for a second if the gender roles in this scenario were reversed – a pack of 40-year-old dudes, baying like howler monkeys for some 20-year-old piece of T&A. Lining up around the block to see her movies. Setting up little hand lotion shrines in their basements. Taking their sons along to ogle the warez. People would call the fucking police.
In all seriousness, men who behaved this way would be viewed as at least deeply morally suspect for it, if not outright ostracized by their peers/co-workers/families. So how the fuck is it acceptable for these women to do the same?
Now I’m not turning this post into a gender role equality thing. Frankly, I don’t give a tinker’s cuss what these women do. They’re entertaining in a wide world of sports kind of way. Horrifying, cringe-worthy, laughable, a beautiful illustration of the absolutely ridiculous nature of our species. But I try for just one second to put myself in the shoes of the poor bastards these lunatics are married to, having to endure pre-pubescent mania from a 40-year-old with a shrug and an embarrassed little smile to their friends. And when I do, I can’t help but feel a little bit sad.
.elkraps t’nod nem laeR

2 Responses to “Fizzy gussets”

  1. […] to hold myself back from just pushing through to season’s end. Had I a gusset, I would be fizzing in it for this […]

  2. Dave says:

    Team Edward?
    Team Jacob?
    Screw that – I am Team Hannah Montana.
    Deeply Morally Suspect.

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