Everyone knows that masturbation is pretty alright. Well, except for maybe a few Christians with exceptionally good vision, but it's a pretty widely held fact within the rest of population. Thing is, it's a little hard to unabashedly whack it in a room full of people, unless you're a homeless exhibitionist. Then anything goes. I mean, hell, you could have been clandestinely taking the goat for a trot in everyone's presence for years, but it's a different story when you're standing there, looking into their disapproving eyes that are aimed squarely at your truly amazing groin, wondering when the last time you trimmed your pubes was and if they now bear a resemblance to the Amazon.
Oh my god, it's a metaphor! Do you get it? I'm all, like, grade 10 Englishing all over your chest. Or maybe not, if you think about it. Or actually, yeah, grade 10 English is perfect because, you see, I'm using masturbation as a metaphor for masturbation so give me a B+ and lets get on to watching 10 Things I Hate About You because there ain't no way anyone's going to be able to understand Shakespeare unless it's put in a modern context and rendered mediocre.
But you don't get it. "Why's this guy jabbering on about wanking and Ms. Thompson?" you're undoubtedly asking yourself. The answer is that I'm masturbating right now, or at least I'm furiously trying to. Why you're reading it probably has something to do with that truly amazing groin I mentioned earlier. Who doesn't love a really well composed, confident groin, after all? If I could just get it going you'd all be impressed. Passionately, overpoweringly impressed.
Unfortunately, it just isn't working when it's actually called for. It's not like I haven't been implicitly spraying my life force all over these pages since day one (not as much as Kyle 'Fucking' Francis, mind you, but his balls are always no more than a second away from going Chernobyl), it's just the explicit part I'm having trouble with. OR AM I? Whoa, keep on your fucking sausage toes, anonymous reader. Hell, if the AP section has accomplished one thing this year-and that notion is pushing its way out of the stratosphere-it's creating the most insular, inaccessible, widely distributed circle jerk that I can be bothered to find and I keep these type of things in a heavily visited bookmarks folder. You, of course, love it. And that's not because I'm delusional enough to think anyone reads the stupid thing, it's that I'm creating you, the reader, so you'll do whatever I want.
But in the end, I've forgotten what I intended to say. I do, however, know two indisputable truths: 1) No matter what I do, no matter how hard I try, nothing I ever write will be anywhere near as funny as a horse just being a horse. 2) I just spent this entire article talking about absolutely nothing and my genitals, and there is no more fitting summation of my time at the Gauntlet than that.