By Scott Gloden
In Woody Allen’s film Sleeper, the characters, in their futuristic setting, encounter a windowless swinging door not unlike those fit into contemporary X-ray rooms called the “orgasmatron.” The purpose? Instantaneous pleasure, a longstanding element of the quixotic existence so many authors write of (i.e. Huxley’s soma). If this idea seems so promising to the relatively failed future, then where is the problem? Why are we not sitting in our rooms waiting for 30 Rock to become consistent again, staring into the bolts of our inexpressive orgasmatrons?
The answer, inadvertent as it may seem, is the art of the hand job. The hand job is, safe to say, the quickest (supposed to be anyhow), least invasive realm of satisfaction we may intercept as living pleasure bots. However, the hand job is also repulsive. It’s a bizarre feeling of another person’s genitals. It is your hand in a primordial Campbell’s [product placement] can of soup, and that image, even in metaphor is, as mentioned, repulsive, vile and lewd. The connotation aside, the action is just as uninviting. Maneuvers like sliding, stroking and rubbing go from once potential places of tenderness into an imbroglio of pubescent life.
I propose a solution, nay, an intervention that will unveil our habitual hate for the hand job, that will lead us so far into the times that Japan will, for once in their lives, have to bow down to us in their all-night arcade rooms: We change the name. A unified designation to the following: a baalmo. Baal, male fertility god of ancient Phoenicia, uniting with the scintillating sound, “mo,” which in certain settings can stand for “moan,” “more,” “move over Beethoven” and, though we should never hope for this scenario, we ought to include it so those few readers out there don’t feel weird and gross (though you absolutely should—honestly, buy a mirror) “mom.”
The latter combinations indicate the endless pleasure of the suffix! From now on, no more bilious party stories of “h@$% j*^s in the foyer! Only respectable chaffing over our new revitalization of human interaction! “Hey Tony [fictive], saw you with Steph [real] the other night, what happened?!” “Well Peter, a gentlemen shouldn’t talk about it, but we baalmo-ed all night long!” “That’s amazing, I’m so glad we changed the name! Now our pregnancy rates will reduce!” Say it. Repeat it. Write your senators.
Story digression. I know I talked about the baalmo in the last section, but I think we should also take an authoritative look at the entire process of the ol’ baalmo (that’s how veterans will refer to it). For instance, cleaning? Is there really an effective solution to that? I mean, you perform the aforementioned motion, more than likely injuring or sustaining emotional injuries at some juncture, the apotheosis comes, so to speak, and you’re left with … Those weren’t ellipses, they were the demonstration of a sloppy mess inside what was intended to be a neat package of text, neat meaning euphoric package meaning—you get that.
SO w/t/f DO YOU DO? Insert New Solution: The Baalmo Cleaning Line. That’s right, we’re about to profit off this. Imagine moist towelettes-meets-diapers. You strap on a pair of Baalmo underwear, and you’re free to roam about any workplace, snack bar or tourist attraction prepared for any unpredictable baalmo fun. How much? $4. Sounds reasonable. Also, $2 for a do-it-yourself kit. We don’t care! We’re stealing these things from the counters of BP and Wawa bathrooms. So the next time you find yourself in a situation of immature physical attention, don’t panic. Take a deep breath, and blammo with a baalmo! Boom. Tag line.
For Lucy Ravich, and the night of Oct. 12, 2009.
Scott Gloden is a senior writing major who is quite a handyman. E-mail him at email@example.com.