A Word From the Pit Crew (Thoughts on Love, Marriage, and NASCAR)

Hello fellow patients,

I've read somewhere that like 80 percent of all homicides occur among family. If that number seems a bit high to you, give your parents a call. By the end of the conversation, not only will you feel that 80 percent is too low, you'll be contemplating doing your part to adjust the statistics.

It was in that state of mind that I hopped into the car this afternoon. I'd just spent an hour talking to my dad on the phone. We were talking about my girlfriend, which of course means we were discussing my need to settle down. I have made two big mistakes with my girlfriend: One, I've kept her for more than a month, and two, I've proven to my dad that she actually exists by letting him meet her (Imaginary girlfriends may not be as much fun to play with as real ones, but you can't beat 'em when it comes to dealing with the fam. It could be argued that, considering everything, imaginary ones are better. Especially if you're bad about forgetting to take the porn out of the DVD player.). Mistakes like these inevitably lead to conversations consisting of statements such as:

"So when are you two going to settle down?"

and...

"You know you're not getting any younger..."

and...

"If you like her, son, you need to get married. If not, you should leave her."

It was the last one that really got under my skin. Is that it? Are the only two options married and alone? An option that means I never get laid, and one that means I'm alone?

Okay, that one was a bit too easy. But you get my point. What it boils down to, as you well know, is grandchildren. There seems to be a certain age when parents develop an addict-like craving for grandchildren. Perhaps it is their desire to see you put through the same shit you put them through. Perhaps it is they are beginning to face their own mortality, and the continuation of the family tree is seen, in some delusional way, as a victory over death.

Whatever it is, it's fucked up. My dad is more concerned about my getting laid than I am, and it creeps me out. Really, guys, it's better to just tell your folks you're gay. Even if you have to go as far as to bring a guy home and make out with him at the dinner table, it's worth it. Sure, they might disown you, but is that so bad? At least you won't have to deal with the grandkid conversation again.

And who knows? You might meet yourself a nice man out of it.

But I digress...

...So, where was I? Oh, yeah. Taking a drive.

I would have liked to have taken this drive off a bridge, but I was in my girlfriend's car. She doesn't like it when I leave my underwear on the bathroom floor, so I'm guessing she really wouldn't care for me leaving her car at the bottom of Mobile Bay. No, this drive would serve only as a momentary reprieve from the issue, not as a solution for it. My girlfriend's car only has a cassette player in it (Yes, I'm aware that makes me a bad boyfriend, but I think it should be obvious by now that she's not that picky. And let's keep it that way, okay? The last thing I need is someone telling her that she could find a man who doesn't write shit about three-ways and gay porn.), so I was stuck with the radio. I got in the car and was immediately pelted by the top-40 station...

"If you like it then you should'a put a ring on it..."

Great. My dad's got Beyonce' pressuring me now.

My girl's totally cool. She's never made even the slightest comment about getting married. Of course, that's probably because she knows she doesn't have to. Between my family and Beyonce', that one's pretty much covered.

So what about my side? I know I'm not the only guy who isn't out ring shopping as soon as he has three good dates. What about us? Do we get a say? Don't we get to have our voices heard? Considering all the pressure on us to get married, we must have a pretty good reason why we fight it. There must be something worth fighting our women, our families, and Beyonce' for. But who's going to tell our side? Who's gonna lay it all out there and explain, once and for all, why we try so hard to wait until the very last minute to enter into wedded bliss?

Me, that's who. And how am I going to explain it?

NASCAR.

Perhaps I should elaborate...

You see, ladies and family, we fellas see life as a NASCAR race. And not just because it is the same thing, over and over and over and over again, with a horrific death in a flaming ball of carnage being our only hope of sweet, sweet escape. Not that at all. No, we see life as a NASCAR race, with wedded bliss being the finish line. The ultimate goal is to cross the finish line just as that last drop of fuel is being burned. If we can draft our way through our relationships, conserving the fuel of love as much as possible, while avoiding the yellow caution flags of dry spells, and the ten-car pileups of STDs, we might just see it through to the final lap of engagement, and ultimately the checkered flag of our wedding day, and get to taste the sweet white milk of our first night as man and wife (Sorry 'bout that last analogy. I'm having a bit of trouble getting Ken out of my mind...).

Confused? Me too. I don't know shit about NASCAR. I'm just trying to get more Google hits.

Let me try again. See, what a guy really wants is to marry the last hot girl willing to have sex with him. That may seem shallow, but it eliminates the one fear that keeps guys from jumping on the marriage bandwagon: The fear that, as soon as we tie the knot, we're going to get that phone call...

"Remember me? I'm the hot chick that you saw on the subway this morning. I know this may seem forward of me, considering I didn't even give you a second glance, much less get your phone number, but me and a couple of my friends are having a dick-sucking contest, and I could tell by your sizeable bulge that you are ample enough to provide enough of a challenge to be the judge, and so..."

Hey, you have your knight in shining armor; we have our blowjob-contest girls. It's all a matter of perspective. We all have our fantasies. It's just that yours are courtesy of Disney, while ours are made by Vivid (Google it, ladies, if you're confused. And download the results of your search. Your man will appreciate you for it.).

Don't get us wrong. It's not that we don't love you, or don't think that you're beautiful. It's just that even the fanciest sportscar loses resale value as soon as you take it off the lot, and we've put a lot of miles on you, and...

...Perhaps I have said too much. I see the looks I am getting. I think maybe it would be best if I tried a different approach, one that will get the parents off my back, keep my girl from knowing about the whole subway blowjob-contest thing, and settle this "when are you gonna get married" shit once and for all.

Now what did I do with Ken's number?

His Holiness Pope Salty I

p.s.: I would appreciate it if you would not give too much thought to the fact that I don't have dick-sucking contest chick's number, but I do have Ken's. "Don't ask; don't tell", that's always been my policy.

HHPS1