It is strange that for a generation that exchanges and expresses almost entirely in pictures, we the oldies complain that they don’t communicate enough. If a picture is worth a thousand words, as per the adage, then these tots are churning out a Shakespearean volume overnight. And with all this lack of words, it leaves everything open to interpretation which means that unlike me and my friends who, boringly enough, often like to talk about something concrete and rooted, the millennials are happy with leaving floating thoughts in the cloud for everyone to interpret.
You can read that last sentence at various levels frankly but that’s the joy of word play, something that doesn’t quiet translate to the world of pictures. But then sometimes, words fail me. I remember my first crush; the strength it took — oh it was a tense moment — for me to walk up to her and offer her a Valentine’s day card. And then when she turned up for our little dance party, only I know what courage it took to walk up and ask her for a dance. As for the dance itself, safe to say that there have been few more testing moments in my life and I have lived in an all-boys hostel where ragging was de rigueur.
And then this generation comes along, so confident, so sure… so full of themselves and so stupid. I had never thought that the ‘D’-word-for-the-male-reproductive-organ and ‘pic’ could ever be used in the same sentence, let alone executed. I am the kind who thinks a selfie is too much of an over-indulgence no matter how mentally disturbed you already are. So imagine my distraught sense of comprehension when I hear women complaining about men who don’t stop to think for a second before getting their pants around their ankles and posing for a penile-profile; not an ultrasound or X-ray kind but the X-rated type.
And as if this solipsistic scripture wasn’t callous enough a capture, they deem it fit to be wired over social media into some lady’s inbox who least expects warrants or wants it to turn up there. Now I’ve been put off by seeing those gross images on cigarette packets that detail what tobacco addiction will do to you. I can only imagine that if a similar horrible image of someone’s fine flaccidity were to turn up on my phone, it would put me off anything sexually arousing for a long time to come. And yet, boys who send their prick-pic think it will actually get them some action. When sending picture to a lady, the only filter that counts is one of etiquette. And failing that, discretion.
I’m trying so hard to convince ladies that most men honestly don’t wish their soldier to be marched anywhere outside the barracks. For those who do, they need to be court-martialed. Or have their soldiers disarmed if you catch my drift. Sending a snap of my seed-thrower is like school in Sundays: no class. Boys, if you have ever done this, or intend to, don’t. If you must send a picture of it, start with your parents, possibly the only set who, even as they question your sanity, won’t be entirely put off by it. Or maybe start your younger siblings’ sex education earlier than planned. But don’t think it is cool to dole them out because you can. And if you are serious about the art of courtship, read some sonnets by Shakespeare; that way even you don’t get laid, you’ll be the most eloquent one at the asylum.
The writer is a lover of wine, song and everything fine
