Relax. I didn't actually screw a stuffed monkey.
Although I'll admit it was exploitive to get this shot of him in my bed
while he was too busy with his banana to notice. It was an impulse move, and I'm sorry. I was inspired by 21st century "ingénue" who shared
her post-Super Bowl conquest.
When I first saw this gal's selfie on my Facebook feed, I
thought it was a joke. It had to be a couple of my wacky improvisor
friends, right? Or a headline story for The Onion.
But no. It was a real woman who exchanged bodily fluids in
the sheets she was wrapped in. My second reaction? Holy shit, what has
this culture come to?
I am all about telling the truth publicly: my stand-up is ripped from my personal headlines, my writing is mostly nonfiction, I am
moved by the unvarnished, raw exposure of the human condition. My response
to anyone doing this is always forgiving, if not encouraging. So I have
to thank this young woman for exposing to me my limits for public
How did we become a culture that does? How many million
people have clicked on this by now? Does the girl have a book deal or at least
a reality show? Since she's so open to it, why don't we just watch her
fuck her way through the entire NFL? In the spring, she could move to
baseball. Now I know she is sorry and, apparently, has deleted all her "social media platforms." I should
have a little more compassion — or at least appreciation for her update of the old stand-by for women who sleep their way to the top. She certainly
figured out a more efficient way to get the job done. Screw a famous man once
and catapult there with the click of your thumb.
We get it, you have friends. You like apple martinis. But what about those of us who haven't gotten out of sweatpants in five years and didn't make the invite list?
If I were a high profile man, I'd be very nervous. And sorely disappointed. These fame-seeking women have taken all the fun
out of being a famous man. Used to be one of the perks of notoriety as a man
was all the unbelievable and unaccountable "action" you got with the ladies. But gone are the days of anonymous, disposable sexual encounters.
STD's, guys, you gotta take away their phones if you want to get in bed with
them. It has to be like when you go to Marshall's on New York City's
Upper West Side: the girl needs to check her bag with your security dude. She can have it back when the front door hits her ass on the way out.
Now that that's off my chest, which I will not include a
photo of with this post, I want to address the "selfie" issue for the less
famous and the less sexual. Namely, us (we?) anonymous Moms. We must also
resist the temptation to document every second of our lives to make ourselves
feel victorious. Despite how seductive it is to snap the photo of you and
the kids at the Museum of Tolerance on a Saturday morning, or the Girls' Night Out shot proving you can still fit into a pencil skirt, don't be impulsive and
click "send" to your Instagram account. Inevitably, you're going
to get home and see that princess birthday party invitation on the counter, the
one you blew off that morning with a lame excuse, and now you're nailed. And you've hurt some feelings too. In an effort to prove to social media
what an exceptional mother you are, now there's a shot of you and your
offspring, perfectly healthy, learning about genocide instead of dancing to
"Frozen" and eating birthday cake.
Despite how cute kids look standing in a replica of
Anne Frank's room, spare everyone's feelings and scrapbook that photo
instead. This should go without saying for those moms-night-out soirees
We must also resist the temptation to document every second of our lives to make ourselves feel victorious.
We get it, you have friends. You like apple martinis. But what about those of us who haven't gotten out of sweatpants in five years
and didn't make the invite list? I don't mean to be harsh, but these are the
mommy conquests, and we are no less vulnerable to bragging about them,
consciously or not, than the Super Bowl trollop.
So, unlike this little
diva who can no longer go to a bar in Boston, when it comes to our new selfie culture, we should take the advice of Glenn Campbell's 1970 hit, "Try
a Little Kindness." (I
love this guy.)