He's the Tall, Silent Type

"I Married the Eiffel Tower" was on Channel 5 the other night. I know. Best name for a TV show ever, right? After the initial lead in, the producers could have pretty much shown me 30 minutes of static followed by someone burping and I still would have declared it the most amazing show on television. I mean really. Married to the Eiffel tower? Who on earth has that much imagination? When I'm drunk sometimes I'll draw a picture of a fighter jet squadron attacking Godzilla, with people down the bottom on fire and getting hit by flying debris and stuff, but I would never think to marry that debris. Who marries debris?

One young lady does, and she goes by the name of Erika La Tour Eiffel. I have no idea where the 'la tour' bit came from -- I expect she was just trying to add some extra Frenchiness, you know, to make the whole thing less weird. Her sexual orientation is described as 'objectum sexual', which is a term that was made up to classify people who are sexually attracted to inanimate objects. In this case, towers.

I've drawn a diagram for those people having trouble keeping up:

Figure 1.0 - Objectum Sexual Love Graph

Now I read on a toilet door once that it's not right to make fun of people who are different, so let me just preface the following remarks by saying that I am truly, truly in awe of this raving lunatic. Fancy having to acquire zoning permits just to get a bit of late night action! Incredible.

What I wanted to show you was the original article that this programme was based on (or the other way around, I forget). I cut it out from the quality magazine 'Reveal', a self styled exposé rag which is a fantastic read so long as you are interested in either Amy Winehouse or the effects of cellulite. If you're not in fact interested in either of those things, then frankly I'm a bit concerned about your ability to assimilate.



I actually really admire her willingness to broadcast her weird sexual proclivities to all and sundry. Especially sundry, because I don't know who sundry is and unknown things are scary. It must take some real guts to cash in on a weird sex story, cheapening your entire relationship and rendering illegitimate your demand for acceptance. I totally admire her for that. What I don't admire her for is that tattoo of the Eiffel tower between her boobs.


Ewww.


Betcha wish I didn't point that out huh? Yeaah, me too.

I love this article though. It has some of the greatest comedic gold I've ever read anywhere ever as far as I can remember. Allow me to draw your attention to paragraph 7.



The Space Shuttle Columbia? Priceless! If you ask me, the Space Shuttle Columbia just sounds funny. "Mum, Dad, I'd like you to meet the Space Shuttle Columbia."

Of course, young love doesn't last forever. Her romance to the shuttle burned out around about the same time the shuttle did, which was upon re-entry in 2003 killing all seven astronauts on board. It's hard to pick up the pieces after something like that.

Now, some people might say that she was only interested in the shuttle for it's uncanny resemblace to.. a flying mongoose. But they'd be wrong. She loved it because it totally looks like a giant wang. Squint your eyes up a bit. Theeere you go.



Hold up, I'm starting to see a pattern here.






They're..


all..



grey.

I have no idea what that means but I'm sure it's profound. Profound and sexy.



Oh my. What was her pet name for the Space Shuttle Colombia I wonder? Rod? Shaft? Outside of the fact that her lover's names sound as though they were plagiarised from a porno book store, you've really got to hand it to someone who obviously has her priorities for love sorted out:

1. Must be phallic symbol
2. Must be inert
3. Must have telepathic connection with

They didn't do particulary well at archery, and I'm not surprised. To me, the whole relationship seems like a conflict of interest. Think about it: I seriously doubt whether Lance would help you win an archery contest if he was paranoid that you were going to cheat on him with the winner's trophy. I've been around enough sporty love triangles to know that jealous sporting apparel makes for some pretty uncomfortable change-room dynamics. Ditch that bow girlfriend. Find yourself a nice, non-possessive airgun instead.

Anyway, that's it for me. There's really only so long you can talk about this stuff for. You start to feel a bit ensconced in the subject matter, and just between you and me, the laptop has been shooting me pensive looks for the last five minutes.

He needn't worry. I've always been a Mac man myself.

--
If you correctly guessed that my entire post last joke was in poor taste, I'd suggest you go to humor-blogs.com. It's a happy place where people are free to love whatever objects they choose. Shoes, bikes, whatever. People describe them as smelly hippies, but by god; If getting sexual gratification from a George Foreman grill is hippy, then flower power me up baby.