the one in which i’m on team tiger.

The latest adventures of the monogamously challenged, that which by any other name would smell so sweet, but in today’s edition go by Jesse (James). Or John (Edwards). Or Tiger (no specification needed).

Don’t shock me. Or anger me. Or cause me to employ some self-righteous feministic tone about all those fucking-good-for-nothing-men-I-mean-ohmygod-won’t-they-ever-learn!

It amuses me.

Because the real question is: when will WE ever learn?

How many times can we muster the appropriate horror for celebrity philandering before we fail to be scandalized by what has become the rule rather than the exception to marital life? When will we stop pretending we are civilized? Stop attempting to dull our innate dispositions and temper our millennia long existence as animals with invented social structures?

When will we stop turning them into the bad guys because they are human? Because they don’t adhere to outdated vows that couldn’t be less suited to humanity’s natural urges? Because they OHMYGOD still desire other people even though they whispered pretty little things in front of pretty little people and promised to live a pretty little life.

But our puritanical society, raised on a diet of a very specific happily ever after, can’t, won’t, refuses to process the evolution of modern entanglement.

So we remain chained to an idea of matrimony that we call “traditional,” and “old fashioned,” we use such words as if they end any argument to the contrary. We use such words as if they’re true.

But they’re not.

The modern definition of marriage? The notion we currently subscribe to? It’s in its infancy.

Because a century ago women were fucking property and marriages were contractual obligations that had little to do with love.

But we sit here and scratch our heads as to why this ceremony we partake in, this platform we aspire to, why doesn’t it work! We spew divorce statistics (50 percent!) and conjecture about why people just can’t stay together like they used to.

They used to stay together because it was a business obligation.

Because they were never happy so they didn’t experience the inevitable fall that follows unmitigated lust.

They stayed together because they had to.

Now. Now we chose to. Or we don’t.

But when we witness someone, some famous someone, do what people have been doing for, well, ever, we:

Eat.

Them.

Alive.

Because to acknowledge their urges, we have to acknowledge our own.

And that’s terrifying.

So we hide from ourselves, we shift focus to them, and we get mad. We get really fucking mad at them for exposing human nature.

And then? Then we commit inexcusable acts of irony in which we become animals of an infinitely more dangerous kind, exposing more about our real roots than any extramarital tryst ever could.

Our crimes are much graver.

Our glee at their pain. Our delight in their torture and giddy chatter about their shortcomings. Our endless desire to have them APOLOGIZE and EXPLAIN and APOLOGIZE and EXPLAIN and apologize! apologize! apologize! all while we ogle their bikini clad coconspirators.

It’s so. so. sad.

And surely more of a sign of the moral apocalypse than the crimes we stone them for.

Wash. Rinse. Repeat. Repeat. Repeat.

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~ by rubylocks on March 19, 2010.

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