Loafin'
Summer is staying late this year, which means lots of flesh still being exhibited. For months, the girls in Redding have been exploding into their skimps like the desert into bloom after a century rain. If there was only some way to harness the power of the jiggles, undulating evocatively, valley to mountain, crevice to strap. For the voyeurs, the danger is snapping heads and twisted necks, as the teenies bop and bounce, apparently at every public opportunity, from street corner to filling station. Some try their trot in The Mall, but it’s kinda chilly in the faux arctic air, and sometimes their prominents are made too pointedly.
A number of years ago, I came upon an article about the sinful victimization of young female trailer trash. It wasn’t that the teen-ettes necessarily lived in metal homes, but that they had a certain — maybe genetic — disposition toward lascivious ripening in their adolescence. Then, somehow, like the swallows finding San Juan Capistrano, at age twenty, these girls suddenly looked like fifty. One wag suggested that it was simply part of the natural life cycle of the two-titted, back-flopped, twig-spreader; a ubiquitous lower-end breed found plentifully throughout the southern states, and in most other loci of untended rurality.
Often the cause of the collapse was pregnancy, which generally resulted at the end of a flawed search for a partner. Inevitably, failure would result, since the wares being hawked — while appealing to all classes, from a distance — were usually marketed blindly to the familiar hunks-be-dolts. The huff-’n-puff selection process is not well-informed, and criteria revolve primarily around musculature — automotive and human — and tend to overlook such critical factors as intellect, wit, grace, and earning potential.
Not every girl-woman suffers this fate. Some have intelligent and dutiful parents who make them study enough to get a ticket to the next level, where they develop less ostentatious if more fiscally productive assets. The same can happen with the boys, of course; hounded by enlightened parents, they come to realize that any route to fulfillment is about more than baggy pants, tattoos, and easy prune tang.
The social environment is the key to whether or not someone chooses to thrive, rather than merely survive. And it’s tough, what with peer pressure and television, and few accessible alternatives. The result for too many young people is that they don’t grow their minds, but instead, follow the least resistant path, acceding to gravity, emulating the earlier dinosaurs. You see the young men -- shirtless, graffiti’d bodies -- walking dourly along the side of the road, carrying a twelve-pack of the cheapest beer from the gas station a mile away. It’s Sunday morning. They lost their driver’s license to a DUI conviction.
The women eat. And eat and eat. Many haven’t seen 200 pounds since they reached the age of majority. They are kept, by dutiful husbands and/or the county. From porcine to bovine -- tented in mooo-mooo’s, ‘cause moo-moo’s aren’t big enough -- they ply the aisles at CostCo, squallers in tow, chowing down on the free samples with a compulsion that bleakens all possibility. The children, by the way, aren’t allowed to taste, but rather than it being a windstraw that the cycle might be broken, it is merely an exercise of flatulent power.
Summertime, and the loafin’ be easy. Not really.
And that’s SetonnoteS...I’m Tony Seton.
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