PATRICK STEPHENSON

Earthbound concerns of an ascendant adult

“Pornflakes”

by Patrick Stephenson,
still the moral authority

TEMPERAMENTAL RIFT // In past columns, I’ve written of my generation’s addictions and afflictions. We booze too often and to excess, we drive too quickly disregarding safety, and when we use public restrooms, we don’t wash our hands. CornflakesWell, because of the too intimate access I have to my friend M., I’ve uncovered another affliction: Internet pornography! To preserve this newspaper’s sanctity, I will—from now on—refer to porn as “cornflakes.”

To say the least, pal M. is addicted to cornflakes, and I fear the longterm damage this addiction’ll cause. Of course, I’ve known of cornflakes a long time, but not until recently did I understand its detrimental effect on regular browsers. Three months ago, M. was jilted by his girlfriend—a Brazilian beauty named J., whom I miss—but rather than finding another girl, M. has developed this addiction. To make him aware of my feelings about its potential harm, I’m using this column as a semi-public airing of M.’s problem. No more, I say. No more.

To begin with, unlike my Mac-owning self, M. owns a Windows PC. Unfortunately, like every other Windows computer, M.’s peecee is a POS. Although he insists on its superiority, he realizes that if he connects to the Internet, vast armies of malware will infect his ostensibly pristine HD within minutes. Ergo, to engage the addiction encouraged by his break-up, M. relies on my sleek G5 for internet. Once on, he heads directly for his favorite, Latina-themed cornflakes outlets. M.’s exterior is innocent and unrevealing of any suppressed perversion, but that facade is abandoned immediately in my computer’s presence.

M.’s comfort with browsing cornflakes around me has created several awkward situations. A few weeks ago, although a conservative Christian painter and his 13-year-old grandson were only two rooms away painting my old bedroom’s walls light blue, M. insisted on hooking into a P2P to download hardcore cornflakes. To prevent the painter and grandson from hearing the cornflakes’ moaning, I had to push M. off my computer and reduce the volume.

Earlier tonight, although my parents were quietly sleeping fewer than 50 feet away, M. went online again for (I give up) porn. I’ve befriended a sicko! That M. enjoys watching cornflakes in my presence, transfixed by the flesh, and the gyrations, and the milk, is disturbing enough. (Am I alone in feeling that it’s uncomfortable to watch Cornflakes with one’s male friend?) But that he’s able to watch it while—of all people—my parents are nearby is doubly disturbing.

Cornflakes have so corrupted M. that, on a recent Westfire Grill outing, even though a former, and incredibly drunk, friend of M. was hanging onto him in a suggestive way, he ignored her advances. After she’d left our table, I tried to call the girl back, but I failed and M. refused to provide help. Later on, we went back to his apartment—two guys, no girls included—and decided to watch a movie. We turned on an excellent horror/comedy, but M. became bored.

For entertainment, he retrieved his laptop and turned on some stored cornflakes. With disgust, I sighed. “I don’t have all of this one,” he said, referring to the incomplete video on-screen. “We’ll have to download it all onto your computer and then burn it to a CD.” The last time I’d allowed M. to download illicit material, it had taken me weeks to rid my computer of the smut. I was reluctant to begin again.

Despite this column’s focus on the experiences of a single person, I believe the stance I’ve taken may be imposed onto my generation. We’re all alike—admit it—and if one friend of mine is addicted, then a certain percentage of my readership must be similarly afflicted. In addition to objectifying women, etc., cornflakes are a false outlet for a male’s breeding instinct. They encourage the male to stay at home—all alone—instead of meeting real girls. Humans are social animals—we evolve by communicating with others—and if we avoid those meetings, we devolve into lesser beings. My friend M., therefore, is becoming an ape.

Written by patiomensch

March 3, 2007 at 7:00 pm

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