That’s All I Need

Apparently. some study has come out [sic] that all the 50+ set needs is to have more nookie, because that will help their brains.

It’s been a while (no details necessary), but I seem to recall that sex has the opposite effect on my brain, in that as I recall, I become really stupid during the act itself — the Goofy-like facial expressions alone are the giveaway — and pass out in some kind of coma shortly thereafter. I know that some people claim that sex makes them feel “more alive”, whatever that means, but they’re probably the same people who claim to have sex 7.9 times a week, the lying bastards.

I mean, seriously: does sex help your brain more than. say, reading a Thomas Sowell book on economics? That just doesn’t seem feasible. And yes, I know that economics puts people to sleep; but then again, so does sex. Afterwards, not during, although I seem to recall a few embarrassing occasions when I fell asleep during sex — but that was years ago, my memory is fading, and maybe I fell asleep while reading an economics book rather than while having sex. It’s an easy mistake to make when the two activities are so similar (it’s been an even longer time since I read an economics book.)

Unfortunately (and this is a recurring theme on this blog), this advice means that oh FFS, the senescent Baby Boomers, already one of the most sexually-obsessed generations in human history, are going to try to coax yet more erections from their exhausted phalli and pound on Gammy’s worn-out genitalia even more than they have already, just so they can remember what The Who sounded like at Woodstock.

And if that concept doesn’t give you the heebies, I don’t know what will.

Fortunately, this does not affect Your Humble Narrator because, well, none of your business, and also because my memory is just fine — even though I can’t remember movie titles, the actors’ names who starred in them, or anything other than the fact that a couple of scenes showed Julie Christie’s nipples. Or maybe it was Susan George’s pubic hair, or Vanessa Redgrave’s buttocks. Whatever. What I do remember, with blinding clarity, is the dismay I felt when Urkel Obama was elected POTUS, the joy I felt when God-Emperor Trump ended the Socialist Years, and the bitter tears that were shed by the foul socialists when Hillary Bitch Clinton came out of the 2016 presidential election looking like a complete tit. Oh, I remember the good stuff, you betcha. Don’t need sex for that, thank God.

I have always thought that memory is like a computer’s hard drive: there seems to be a limit on the amount of stuff one can hold in storage, as it were, and as one gets older, the damn thing gets fuller and fuller — not only with worthwhile stuff like the plot line of Hugo’s Les Misèrables, but sadly with the biggest load of crap, like Fonzie’s hairstyle in Happy Days. Now if having sex meant that you could somehow erase all the latter bullshit to make space for more of the worthwhile stuff, I’d park my RV outside Dennis Hof’s Chicken Ranch in Nevada and run all my credit cards up to the max in a matter of days. Assuming that Big Pharma could manufacture sufficient quantities of those pills that give one a woody, of course.

But no. My bet is that if more sex improved my memory, I’d just start remembering more bullshit, like the Girl Scout Incident of 1975 or the Great Parking Lot Affair of 1992. (Or was it 1993?) Or if more sex actually improved my brain function, it would doubtless enable me to understand still-more worthless bullshit, such as the difference between M1 and M2 — the economic things, not the British motorways.

I seem to have forgotten the original premise of this post. Sorry about that. Maybe all I need is some nookie. With some woman who will not puke at the thought of having sex with me. Oh good grief. Gimme the pills — and not those damn Viagra things, either.

Or maybe I’ll just have (another) drink. Gin works wonders with the memory — or maybe it was foreplay which does that.

I forget.