You know, I've been around for a while, not as long as some of you but I've been around long enough to know that sex is like a magnet. No matter where you put it, it will draw a crowd.
If you insert "sex" into your headline or in one of your tweets, you're automatically guaranteed 69 clicks or reviews, minimum. Make no mistake about it, folks, sex is the most sought after three-letter word known to humankind. It gets more of a reaction than God. I don't like using sex and God in the same sentence and this sentence I just penned was an accident, I didn't mean to do it. I swear to God I didn't mean to put sex in the same context. No, not like so many other sex-possessed heathens.
Sex sells, bottom line. You know, there was a time when sex was sacred . . . not any more. No siree, Bob or whatever your name is -- sex has been cheapened by its velocity, ubiquitousness and rather tainted allure--which nowadays includes a bikini-clad sister of the convent sitting pretty atop the church steeple selling the latest craze--eelskin sheathed condoms painted purple and as she claims in the advertisement, "goes good with the bell bottoms." Hell, I thought bellbottoms went out of style along with Timothy Leary's ergot-funded looking glass.
Make no mistake about it, my cherished colleagues, but sex is not at all what it's purported to be...as is glamorized in your fantasy-driven Soap Opera or that new show...what is it again?...er, um. . . oh yeah, Despotic Housewives. That's not how it is in the real world, no siree Bob or whatever your name is.
I ask myself why does sex sell? I give myself all types of answers, some make sense and others, well, forget it... I might as well be Daffy Duck on LSD for goodness sake. I think to myself, hmm, maybe I should ask a professional this question. Perhaps one of those ladies you see in the yellow pages. Or in Senator Turnover's Black book.
So there I am, in Madame Bouvier's Brothel. . Research of course... There, answers don't come cheap. First I had to pay the Madame three hundred bucks just to have an interview with one of the young professionals who work in the back office. I go to the young professional's office and immediately it strikes me that she hasn't a desk. Nor a computer. Or a telephone. And besides, I am seeing red. Lots of red. Red Curtains, red carpet, red sofa, red lights, red pillows.
What kind of office is this? I ask myself. Suddenly the young professional comes out in a slinky red negligee and all of a sudden I don't have the heart to ask her my questions. My heart's beating too fast. I don't know why. She purrs at me, looks me up and down, licks her lips, my heart's beating faster and faster. I don't know why. She purrs some more and for some odd reason I immediately pull out my wallet and hand her five hundred dollars. Don't know why! Maybe to help further her education; perhaps to help her through post-graduate school.
After about an hour I realized what had happened... I came to a full realization why sex sells. The answer is hormones. And libido. And slinky negligees. And red lights. And green lights. And.. . And.. . and. . .
If you insert "sex" into your headline or in one of your tweets, you're automatically guaranteed 69 clicks or reviews, minimum. Make no mistake about it, folks, sex is the most sought after three-letter word known to humankind. It gets more of a reaction than God. I don't like using sex and God in the same sentence and this sentence I just penned was an accident, I didn't mean to do it. I swear to God I didn't mean to put sex in the same context. No, not like so many other sex-possessed heathens.
Sex sells, bottom line. You know, there was a time when sex was sacred . . . not any more. No siree, Bob or whatever your name is -- sex has been cheapened by its velocity, ubiquitousness and rather tainted allure--which nowadays includes a bikini-clad sister of the convent sitting pretty atop the church steeple selling the latest craze--eelskin sheathed condoms painted purple and as she claims in the advertisement, "goes good with the bell bottoms." Hell, I thought bellbottoms went out of style along with Timothy Leary's ergot-funded looking glass.
Make no mistake about it, my cherished colleagues, but sex is not at all what it's purported to be...as is glamorized in your fantasy-driven Soap Opera or that new show...what is it again?...er, um. . . oh yeah, Despotic Housewives. That's not how it is in the real world, no siree Bob or whatever your name is.
I ask myself why does sex sell? I give myself all types of answers, some make sense and others, well, forget it... I might as well be Daffy Duck on LSD for goodness sake. I think to myself, hmm, maybe I should ask a professional this question. Perhaps one of those ladies you see in the yellow pages. Or in Senator Turnover's Black book.
So there I am, in Madame Bouvier's Brothel. . Research of course... There, answers don't come cheap. First I had to pay the Madame three hundred bucks just to have an interview with one of the young professionals who work in the back office. I go to the young professional's office and immediately it strikes me that she hasn't a desk. Nor a computer. Or a telephone. And besides, I am seeing red. Lots of red. Red Curtains, red carpet, red sofa, red lights, red pillows.
What kind of office is this? I ask myself. Suddenly the young professional comes out in a slinky red negligee and all of a sudden I don't have the heart to ask her my questions. My heart's beating too fast. I don't know why. She purrs at me, looks me up and down, licks her lips, my heart's beating faster and faster. I don't know why. She purrs some more and for some odd reason I immediately pull out my wallet and hand her five hundred dollars. Don't know why! Maybe to help further her education; perhaps to help her through post-graduate school.
After about an hour I realized what had happened... I came to a full realization why sex sells. The answer is hormones. And libido. And slinky negligees. And red lights. And green lights. And.. . And.. . and. . .
By Ricky J. Fico aka Dan (The Man) Landers
