Your Regular Dose of Positive Spin...
Because You Don't Appreciate Enough

Posts Tagged ‘sex’

Now that the seminal 70’s musical Grease is being run ad-nauseum on ABC Family Channel and Summer Lovin’ has been remixed for the dance floor of every wedding reception you’ve ever been to, people seem to have forgotten that the movie is fairy subversive when it comes to modern morality and social morays.

“Subversive” be damned; it’s downright hedonistic.

If you remove all the upbeat song and dance numbers and then boil the plot down to its most basic elements, you’re left with something like the following:

SlutIn a 50’s era highschool, a band of society-spurning renegade teenagers and their group of kept women have unprotected sex, stage dangerous automobile races, and engage in underage drinking with utter abandon. As one teenager comes to terms with her own teenage pregnancy, another outcast drops out of school amidst confusion and indifference about her lackluster future. Yet another must deal with the advances of a pedophile television host with a dangerously aggressive sense of entitlement. The boys callously ruin reputations by spreading tawdry rumors about sexual conquests that never happened (Summer Lovin’, indeed), while the girls deride each other with cruel disdain. And in the midst of all of this depravity, all eyes are on Sandra Dee, a wholesome outsider who must shed her comfortable skin by changing her appearance, subverting her morals, suppressing her own personality, and hyper-sexualizing her persona in a desperate attempt to keep the man she thinks she loves.

Kids, get the popcorn!

But if you look at it through slightly more forgiving eyes, Grease depicts real issues of real teenagers that most movies gloss over with saccharine sentimentality and unrealistically altruistic outcomes. Grease is different. The teenagers act like teenagers and learn lessons like teenagers and act like teen-aged idiots, and in the end the outcome does not exactly teach the lessons that your mama wants you to learn. By adding in song and dance numbers, Grease also gets the “wild, frivolous heyday of youth” aspect spot on as well. It’s all just a party to kids. It may seem goofy, but it’s probably one of the more realistic portrayals of stupid teenagers in all of film history.

And don’t feel sorry for Sandra Dee. Lord knows there are a lot of Betty-Sues and Sandra-Dees in the world — goody-two-shoe fuddy-duddies who are unable to let their hairs down. You’re only young once, and Sandy had some catching up to do. Good on her.

The morality of Grease is effing awesome.


Slutty Cats

It was only about 90 million years ago when cats and humans split on the evolutionary timeline. Since then, humans have developed to be intellectually and emotionally prudent in their sexual proclivities while cats have evolved into awesome super sluts.

Due to how they ovulate, a standard house cat needs to mate at least four times before she’s even capable of getting knocked up. In a matter of days. And depending on her situation, it usually isn’t even with the same tomcat. It’s pretty much whoever can pin her down while she’s in heat. This rampant promiscuity means that each kitten in the litter could come from a different papa cat, turning our hapless female into a ghetto-fabulous baby-mama in just one pregnancy.

And it’s not just house cats, either. When in heat, lionesses do it up to 100 times a day, with multiple suitors, all in the same incestuous pride. That’s like one of those gang-bang videos only not disgusting because it’s natural.

Unfortunately, kitty sex doesn’t seem so pleasant for the female, since the males have these nasty barbed penises that scrape up their insides:

Condolences to the unfortunate computer animator who had to recreate that thing for educational purposes.

Evolution has turned cats into sluts, which is fine because it reminds us of what really separates us from the animals, besides 90 million years of evolution: our social mores, for better or worse. Cats can do it guilt-free, with as many partners and as often as they want. But with that sexual freedom comes painful barbed-penis sex. And feline AIDS, which infects 2.5% of cats in the United States. And rampant overproduction.

Sure, it would be awesome to be able to be as slutty as you wanted to be without any judgment whatsoever from your peers, and yes, perhaps humans go a little too far with their sexual prudencies. But humans clearly got the better end of that particular evolutionary divide.

For reminding us that complete sexual freedom might not necessarily be a good thing, slutty cats are effing awesome.


Humans are an interesting lot. After all, the human is the only being capable of consciously controlling its number of offspring. So therefore, humans can be logically divided into two camps: breeders and non-breeders. Breeders seem to regard non-breeders as selfish egotists, and non-breeders seem to regard breeders as self-righteous asshats, but no judgment is intended toward either camp here. The simple fact is that breeders have babies and non-breeders don’t.

Other species don’t have the luxury of choosing whether they want to be breeders or non-breeders. In fact, the sole purpose of many species seems to be reproduction. So much so, that they often die during or immediately after mating. This seems to be especially prevalent in the insect world. And even worse, it seems to be the males that get the horrible-death end of that stick. And often by cannibalistic means. But they don’t seem to care. They will spend their entire short existence trying to woo their female counterparts, only to have their genitals explode or their heads eaten off when she finally decides to put out:

The redback [male spider] actively seeks his own doom, positioning himself above the female’s jaws (chelicerae) during copulation so that he can readily be devoured by the female.

Although some male [praying mantises] do escape unscathed [after mating], many are seized by the female and are dismantled and eaten organ-by-organ, often head first.

The entire sex act [of the Drone Bee] takes place during flight… His explosive ejaculation ruptures his everted penis… [he] dies within minutes after his violent eruption of semen and literally falls from the sky.

So from these terrible tales, we can theorize that since insects can’t control their instinct to reproduce — even if it will kill them in the process — then their sole reason for existence must be to keep their species alive through propogation. But for what purpose? Why do they even need to exist as a species in the first place? Perhaps they exist only to fulfill their role within a much larger ecosystemic food-chain sort of way, or maybe the desire to exist alone is enough to motivate a species. Who knows.

But the very fact that humans can choose whether or not to reproduce could be interpreted to imply that we have a greater purpose on this planet than just existing as a species. And so let’s give it up for the creatures that don’t have that luxury; for even though sex may kill them, it also keeps our little planetary ecosystem churning, as generation upon generation of reproducing insects wait patiently as we humans try to figure out why we are here and what the hell we are supposed to do with ourselves. It’s all for the greater, unknown good.

Or maybe not. Maybe that’s moral relativism. And maybe it’s all random and meaningless and there’s no point or purpose to anything. Even if you insist on taking that pessimistic view point, then at least you have to appreciate the fact that you get to have sex without getting your head eaten off or having genitals explode inside of you. Usually.

If Only They Had the Choice

Insects that die for sex are effing awesome.


175 miles up above your head, Russians and Americans are toodling around together in a ginormous space station that didn’t even exist ten years ago. It’s not clear which is more awesome: the space station itself or the fact that after decades of overt competition and hostility during the Cold War — a period of time where even the prospect of total nuclear annihilation wasn’t off the table — somehow Russians and Americans have learned how to play well together again.

Not the International Space Playboy Mansion you hoped it would be.

Sure, the politics of it are fascinating, but the Russian/American reconciliation was more about economics than ideology, so the Space Station itself is probably the more awesome element in reality: it’s solar powered, travels at over 17,000mph, and it’s as big as a football field. Although the habitable space is barely that of a five-story house. It’s been occupied constantly for over ten years by the aforementioned Americans and Russians, but also the Japanese, Canadians, and Europeans who help foot the bill. It’s got 14 “modules” that are all hooked together, some of which are strictly Russian only (apparently old habits die hard), and they conduct hundreds of cool experiments, mostly involving the effects of zero-gravity environments on anything and everything, even though gravity is actually not zero up there, but rather 88% of what we got here at the surface.

It weighs very nearly a million pounds, passes over your head 15 times a day, and it’s floating up there right now, with little bitty people climbing all over it.

And all that sounds pretty awesome indeed, but now its time to ask the really important questions:

Does it stink in there with all those unshowered astronauts and cosmonauts?
Apparently: no.

Do they have to drink their own pee up there?
Basically: yes

How do they go to the bathroom?
Basically: with some sort of suck machine.

Has anyone ever had sex up there?
Apparently: no, if you believe everything you read.

So maybe it ain’t so cool up there after all. Well, except maybe for that suck machine part.

But still, the International Space Station is effing awesome.


Judy Blume

Back before J.K. Rowling was writing about witches and goblins or whatever the hell is going on in those Harry Potter books, there was Judy Blume, who was much less subtle when it came to dealing with touchy teen-aged topics like sexuality, masturbation, racism, menstrual periods, being fat, and oh so much more.

Hey Jude, Take a Sad Song and Make it Better

Her books were often challenged in public libraries as being inappropriate for children, but that’s exactly who benefited from them the most, because elementary school is an unwieldy sexual cauldron of wild rumors, tall tales, raging hormones, intentional disinformation, and downright lies. The teachers are afraid to mention sex as an educational topic, the parents certainly don’t seem excited to broach the subject, and the other kids are wildly misinformed, sharing whispered speculations about how even accidentally touching your own genitals could instantly give you hairy palms, macular degeneration, and forever halt the growth of your penis.

Then there’s Judy Blume, like a modern day Kinsey for Kids, whose titular characters might need to learn some rather saucy lessons. Such as in the case of Deenie, the chronic masturbator whose own coming-of-age story involved learning that her self-abuse was in fact NOT the cause of the scoliosis that threatened to ruin her burgeoning modeling career. Finally, a source you could trust. Judy was definitive and irreproachable. You could almost hear forty million kids breathing a huge collective sigh of relief.

But it wasn’t just all sex. Judy was able to remember that sometimes little things are a REALLY BIG DEAL when you are twelve, but she also knew how to setup a juvenile public urination joke like no one else. Most importantly, she could teach you a really important life lesson in 120 pages or less. In fact, you should probably go back and re-read a couple of them right now, because frankly, everyone could use a Judy Blume booster from time to time, if only as a reminder of the kinds of problems you used to have.

Judy Blume is effing awesome.


Tag Cloud