Twice now, I have been served my McDonalds drive-thru coffee by the most ridiculously attractive man I have ever seen in a poxy brown sun-visor.
For a lot of people, this would be a good thing. A good perve is considered, by the greater population, to be wonderful. Women can laze away hours staring at a buff, sweaty tradesman. Men get a gander at a spicy pair of running sticks poking out of a short skirt and are instantly uplifted – both in the trouser and the soul. Most people, on the whole, enjoy having a look.
I am not one of those people.
I don’t understand perving. It is basically window shopping, and I HATE window shopping. Being forced to observe the things you know you can’t have? That’s not fun, that’s self inflicted torture!
So when I am forced to look at, and interact with, a man so beautiful he doesn’t even need to grind the coffee beans (he just shoots them a furtive glance and they voluntarily disintegrate); I am not happy. There are several reasons for this:
1) I don’t like embarrassing myself. I try to avoid potentially humiliating situations wherever possible. But put me in front of someone whose pants I would rather weren’t there and I am sure to create one. I can’t help it – at the first sign of tingling, be it in my heart or my nethers, I become a textbook, sitcom-style bumbling fool. And I don’t need that first thing in the morning. I’m already buying a coffee because I can’t face the day on my own, let’s not make things worse.
2) I am responsible for the safe forward motion of approximately 1400kg of vehicle; which I am already compromising by simultaneously trying to juggle a hot beverage, AND there is a particularly sharp left turn to get out of this particular McDonalds, and so I’ve already got a lot on my mind. I don’t need the added distractions of point 1.
3) A man that beautiful should not be working in McDonalds. It is a waste of his considerable talent. He could make a much more lucrative income in other ways (I would suggest pornography, but I might have my own interests at heart there). He should be paid to just stand somewhere, improving the aesthetic of everything in his immediate vicinity. And then I should be told exactly where that somewhere is, so I can stay the hell away.
And 4) Fast food joint employees should never EVER look as attractive as the models who portray them in the commercials. I have no problem with life imitating art – life can imitate art as much as it wants. And then art can imitate life and the whole thing can spiral endlessly until we’re simply a parody of ourselves – that’s great.
But when life starts imitating advertising…I mean, have you seen cereal commercials lately? Do you really want to live in a world of annoyingly precocious children, mums with bad hairdos, and conspicuously absent fathers?
Oh wait. I just described my childhood.
Well, I’m sure that proves my point somehow.
