The Dirty Sanchez Technology Loop

In honor of national men’s day (seriously, that’s apparently a thing), I’ma type about sex. Specifically, I think we should talk about theoretical sex, which is the kind of sex most men tend to discuss most of the time. In this PARTICULAR instance, I’m not referring to “Oh, I’d bang the shit out of Andy San Dimas,” type theorizing even though 1) she’d probably never let you anywhere near her and 2) on the off chance she did, you’d do a terrible job fucking her (yes you would). No, I’m referring to the pervy, 13 year old boy Olympic playbook of theoretical sex acts that gets added to every day by new crops of teens and boring men—the same one that populates about 70% of Urban Dictionary and generally serves little purpose other than to make the world a more uncomfortable place.

I’m, of course, talking about the donkey punch, the Dirty Sanchez, the mechanical bull, the angry dragon and all the rest of that shit. For those of you who don’t know (and I cannot honestly believe there are any of you, but whatever, let’s at least pretend we’ve got a little dignity around here), these are all degrading sex acts that involve (mostly) buttfucking, (often) violence, (usually) feces, and an element of shitty, fratty, high fiving surprise that occurs when you divert your course from run-of-the-mill fucking, getting a BJ, whatever, and turn it into, let’s say, a Dirty Sanchez (which is [and, again, you all know this already]) when you pull your dick out of someone’s ass and wipe the head along their upper lip, thereby creating the appearance of a Mexican revolution-esque resplendent turdskid mustache on your unwitting partner). These acts are, to the last, vile, lame, unfunny and (and this is the main thrust of my Men’s Day blog post) almost entirely imaginary. These are acts that, until recently, only exist in the Terminator technology loop, not in any sort of organic real life. I’ll explain:

In Terminator 2, it’s revealed that the way that humanity was able to develop the robotic science and corresponding AI (artificial intelligence) that facilitated what was to become Skynet and ultimately the Terminators was all contingent on the fact that when the original Terminator (Arnold Schwarzenneger) came back in time to kill Sarah Connor, he was blown to bits (among other humiliations), and, as a result, left a semi intact, robotic forearm and hand laying around, where it could be studied. Scientists analyzed the robotic artifact, and from their findings, they were able to move forward with the technology that would ultimately create Skynet and the Terminators and thereby doom humanity. You see the implication here? No one ever actually developed the technology. It was able to be improved upon because it existed, and it existed because it had been improved upon to the point where it had been developed into a time-traveling, Austrian killing machine who was able to visit a time that would be able to properly develop the technology. It’s a closed loop. No one invented it. If I were the kind of person who thought that James Cameron considered himself or his work to be more grandiose than it is, I’d maybe invoke the idea of some sort of AI/robotic immaculate conception theme at this point, but I’m not that kind of person, and I’m digressing, so we’ll just put a pin in this ‘closed-tech-loop’ idea for now and get back to the Dirty Sanchez.

The Dirty Sanchez, along with the donkey punch (punching your partner in the back of their head while fucking them from behind) and the angry dragon (something about blowing a load in someone’s face and then punching the blower during your orgasm so blood and semen squirt out the nose [beyond being a violent assault and absolutely a deplorable thing to do, this seems like a terrible gamble for your dick, but whatever, dumbass], are all things that were invented by people who have never, ever, ever been allowed anywhere near a woman’s vagina. If you need evidence, consider how fucking stupid you have to be to come up with this nonsense, give it a name, tell people about it, and assume that any of it could be part of any sort of sexual oeuvre ever. No, the people who came up with this stuff never did it, or even did anything else, but a funny thing happened on the way to the future:

The internet popularized these fake acts and their definitions and, importantly, presented them as something that happened, without forcing the person learning about it to see the loser dumb enough to talk about it. To put it another way, when I heard about the Dirty Sanchez, it was from an old, gross buzzard, that I knew never got laid. I chuckled, and filed it away under “dumb shit that dipshit virginal losers make up during the time they spend not getting laid” because the guy enlightening me was obviously and transparently a total fucking loser. However, when people ten, fifteen or twenty years younger than me heard about the Dirty Sanchez, they were just reading about it on the internet. There was no cautionary loser involved. Add to that, that some of these intrepid internet explorers were young, naïve and probably stupid, but potentially otherwise charming/rich, and next thing you know: BOOM! Screech from saved by the bell is giving a Dirty Sanchez to a woman in a porn he filmed himself. Now, let’s set aside, for a moment, how disgusting and degrading it is to just have regular and consensual, loving sex with Screech. Screech didn’t make up the Sanchez. He didn’t even make it famous. He just was one of the first people to commit this theoretical act in the public eye (eew) simply because he’d heard about it and (probably?) assumed that the Dirty Sanchez was something that people did, even though (and I can’t stress this next point enough) IT IS ABSOLUTELY NOT SOMETHING PEOPLE DO. So he did it, hoping, one can assume, for a bunch of high fives from a bunch of dorks who also maybe assume the same thing, namely, that sex is/could potentially involve moves like this, if you just dare to get ‘rad’ enough. Cool.

So you see what’s happened here? The Terminator technology loop has come to pass, but instead of robotics and AI, it’s happened with the non-consensual, violent, gross out sex fantasies of dumb, unfuckable 12 year old boys. Cool future. Our Skynet will come to wipe out humanity by way of women who no longer want to be anywhere near men because of these antics. Nice. I don’t blame them one bit.

So, here on national (or is it international) men’s day, I’d like to just remind everyone that we, as men, definitely don’t deserve much of a day, but since we have one, let’s try to tuck our dicks back into our drawers and pretend we have just the tiniest smidge of dignity for once? Kay? Great. Have a good one.

xoxoxo

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Keep Dreaming

Fuck dreams. I don’t believe in them. Specifically, I’m referring to dream interpretations. When people say shit to me like “oh, a dream about your teeth falling out? You know what that means? That means you have anxiety about money” or something like that, my brain automatically translates that to “I’m really into pseudoscience/pop-psychology/nonsense, and I’m probably also into horoscopes and other bullshit like that.” I mean, who doesn’t have dreams about their teeth falling out? Answer: nobody. And who doesn’t have some form of anxiety about money on some level? Again, nobody. You can pick anything that people universally ponder, and any common dream trope and you too can work this fucking quackery and wow the chicks at your next dorm party. It’s easy. Check this out: Oh, you have dreams about falling? That means that you’re apprehensive about what happens when you die. Boom! Dream theory. It’s like being a psychic medium but with even less of a playbook and zero way to quantitatively gauge how obviously full of shit you are.

Now, I am fully willing to admit that if shit’s bothering you, you can have bad dreams as a result. Conversely, if you’re spending a day looking at someone you want to fuck, you may just have dreams about fucking them. I’m not saying that dreams have zero to do with what goes on in your life. They clearly exist in your brain and as such, they’re motivated by your conscious and subconscious thoughts to an extent. What I don’t buy is an overarching interpretation of any particular type of dream that applies to both me and, let’s say, famed pedophile Gary Glitter. There’s just no fucking way. Brains are too different, and as such, dreams are coming out of things that can’t possibly be corralled by some lame book that some dork pulled out of his ass. Lo mein? I’ll expound.

There are humans out there who get sexual pleasure from popping balloons. There are people out there who absolutely live (LIVE!) to punch motherfuckers in the face at bars. Humans exist who enjoy eating feces and other humans are so disgusted by feces that they do everything they can to avoid shitting. Some people fuck dogs. Some people never want to fuck anything at all. Some people will sit down and eat three big macs, a box of mac and cheese and a hostess pie in one sitting and some people are so terrified of food that they starve themselves to death. To briefly return to our earlier example, some people willfully go into situations (playing hockey, doing meth, being British) where the idea of losing one’s teeth is less of a risk and more of a given, and some people would rather get shot in the leg than lose a tooth. Mo’fuckers are snowflakes, bros. Our pleasures are others’ pains and vice versa. Very different things tickle the receptors in our brains that make us happy, sad, scared, angry, etc. There is no way there’s a book that accurately describes what makes parts of our brains light up with glee, and if there is, it should say something to the effect of ‘uh, you name it, some weirdo has beat off to it’ and then end.

SO, you see where I’m coming from? My dream about me fucking a dog is a lot different than a guy in Florida’s dream about fucking a dog. My dream about losing my teeth is different from a toothless guy’s dream about losing his teeth. My dream about falling from a great height is different from Captain Doritos Extreme’s dream about falling from a great height. Though we both have ideas, concerns and apprehensions, my ideas, concerns, and apprehensions about money are different from Donald Trump’s. My notion about the unknown void of death is different from that of a Buddhist monk or my wife’s 92 year-old grandmother. There is just no way that there’s a fucking catch all, decoder ring rosetta stone for dreams that can accurately satisfy why last night I spent the whole time lost in the backstage of a club trying to get to the dressing room only to just walk in circles all night long smelling pizza. I’m sure it has something to do with what I do for a living, but I’ll be damned if I wanna listen to some dork who read some bullshit book written by an even lamer dork analyze my dreams like they’ve spent any time in this nightmare that is my brain.

Pfft. Get outa here with that nonsense. That being said, I’m a virgo, so I’m super skeptical about pseudoscience.

Xoxoxo

Sweet dreams.

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