Real Childish

It must be tough to be a pedophile.
Like, if you enjoy ejaculating onto...car hoods.
That's fucked up, sure.
However, so long as you have a garage and a consenting studebaker, no one will know about it.
Pedophilia is such a give-away.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and someone catches me-
I have to interrupt myself for a second.
Sometimes I really wonder about the state of my brain.
It's so common for me to wonder, "This can't be just me, can it?"
The loud-spoken woman at the table behind me has been describing the itinerary of some wedding.
How each person did on the speech.
Lemon cake (three-layer) with pickles for dessert.
This was at six and she was exhausted.
They wanted to play cards, and Fern didn't take off her jewelry the entire time.
She has these earrings that just go with everything.
They had this unbelievable house. You could see Ohio, but we didn't go there.
I'm eavesdropping and typing this as she says it
(I could be a stenographer, maybe).
Now, I'm listening to her yammer on about this.
And the more she talks, the more I want to throw up all over myself.
I don't feel nauseated, you understand, I just feel like that's the most appropriate reaction.
That's just me, right?
Fuck this woman.
That's the other thing I think, and I guess that's bizzare, too.
It's hard to know that this woman is probably a grandmother, and a human who means well.
And yet, despite that, fuck her.
Because this is a small space and she's saying this to everyone, rather than just her bored friend. 
And I believe it's on purpose.
My new-found, old news idol George Meyer said that comedy writers need to experience reality.
And I understand that Betty's story about absolutely nothing is reality.
I just can't do it.
This is why I always listen to music in public. 
Anyway.
If I stop by a Jag dealership and press my thigh against the passenger door, no one will notice or care.
However, if I spend an entire day perched against the chainlink fence perimitered around the ballfield during a little league tournament.
...
No matter how fucked up a pedophile is (and, let's face it, we've all watched SVU), you can't help your sexual preferences.
It's a tricky predicament.
Pedophilia.
Pedophilia is a tricky predicament.
Oh my fuck, she's talking about turning soup into a casserole now.
People do fucked up things behind closed doors.
Latex this and heated lightbulbs that.
Yet, all of this is, relatively speaking, acceptable.
But, if you're less into women and more into little women...
I'm not sympathizing with pedophiles in this post.
"Is Paul just working his way to this slowly?
Just whose side is he on, here?"
I'm not sympathizing with the pedophiles.
But I am certainly empathizing with them.
At least for the sake of today's conversation. 
Don't take candy from strangers, guys.

I'd intended to post a clip of To Catch A Predator, but it was too depressing.
So, instead I'm providing a clip of Jim Hensen's 1986 fantasy classic, Labyrinth. 
http://youtu.be/ViftZTfRSt8