Friend of a Friend of Sylvia

                                                           

     I was thinking about Sylvia Hudson, and how talking to her in the supermarket made me feel better, but only for a short while.  She gave off an upbeat, happy vibe as she entered the store, so after five or ten minutes I approached her and made some small talk.  We had a nice chat, and she gave me her number. 

     When I called her a few days later, she suggested we get together with her friend Rusty.  “Rusty?”  That can’t be good.  Turns out she wanted to discuss religion.  I didn’t really want to get together because  I think they want to prosylatize.  Convert me.    

    Rusty would probably tell me about his religious awakening.  Some of these accounts of almighty meet-cutes  can really ramble:  “My life was spiralling out of control.  I was reviewing Women in Prison (WIP) movies for a website, and one night it ocurred to me that I was spending 9 or 10 hours a day looking at WIPs, which  you’d have to admit, are  pornographic.

    “As I was doing the research for my four-star review of Caged Fury I felt an unmistakeable sign from above.  Something happened.  A golden light that I hadn’t noticed before seemed to  bathe the compound.  It gripped me as palpably as I’ve been gripped, and I said, ‘Lord, I can’t do it by myself anymore.  If I’m gonna beat this addiction, I’ll need your help.   I need a partner.  You need to steer me in a new direction, to show me…’”

    Dude, bottom line it.

    “Well, suffice it to say I threw off the bonds of Satan in my life just like the inmates in Heat on the Run IV threw off the repression of the evil warden.  (That’s not the only thing they were throwing off—three and a half stars.)  From that moment on, I have felt His presence.  When I was at a friend’s house and he had Cinemax on, it had no effect on me whatsoever.  Granted, I’ve always tended to find those  simulated simulated-procreation scenes rather lame, good for only a half-mast at best.  But now Little Rusty just seems to say, ‘I’m so sure.  This offends my intelligence.’

    “The new me can look at even formerly smoking hot stuff, and  it’s like my junk is engaging in civil disobedience, refusing to go down that path again.  We’re not having it.  Hard to describe the feeling.”

    Good.  Please don’t.  This is turning into a meat-cute.

    “Well, it’s not like when you sit out on the edge of a lame sofa and your johnson goes numb; it’s more like your nether region just goes slack, like a passive-aggressive four-year old who doesn’t want to go to kindergarten.  My life has been so much more meaningful since my experience.  Is that something you’d like to have in your life?”

    Uh, I gotta go. 

    (Editor's note:  To all the Reason Rallyers in Washington today:  Have a nice day.)