Oscar Wilde said that “Everything is about sex except sex. Sex is about power”. So, now I am second guessing this. If everything is about sex except for sex because sex is about power, then by extension isn’t power about sex because it is part and parcel to the “everything” that is about sex? BAM! Take that Foucault! Ooooh. Too soon? Or maybe too insensitive. I don’t do well at sensitive. Which is probably about sex and power since Oscar Wilde and Sigmund Freud apparently drank together and made everything about sex. But is everything about sex? Even power? Certainly, power can get you sex. Why else would beautiful women throw themselves at Pablo Escobar? Have you seen that dude with his tiny shirts and bloated belly? This is not the kind of dude I have been led to believe that women are attracted to. So here I sit, wracking my brains in an attempt to find something that is about something that isn’t about sex.
Behold! I’ve found it. *gesticulation with hands to mimic a magician. Leaf Cutter ants
Leaf cutter ants are almost certainly not about sex. I was introduced to them in Panama long ago. As a kid I was impressed by them. They built fortresses guarded by ferocious warriors who would rather lose their bodies than let go of you when you offended their heads. I loved screwing their world up when I was a kid.
I was all “HAHAHA! You have infrastructure upon which to move these leaf bits to your oppressive bourgeoisie figurehead? BOOM! I am Ant-Shiv! Destroyer of Ant-Worlds!” Then I would wipe out their puny ant roads and march impudently through their crumbling fortifications and laugh as they scurried about in confusion at the absence of their pheromone trails.
Look. I was in third grade. Don’t judge me.
Then they were all “Screw you and your liberation false deity!” As they deployed their Soldier caste to bite my legs and leave me with a primitive version of surgical stitches. Good times…
So, everything is about sex except for sex and leaf cutter ants. Sex is about power which makes it about sex. Leaf cutter ants are about pain that has nothing to do with sex. Seriously. That kind of pain isn’t kinky or in any way beautiful. There is nothing sexy about having pincers the size of your fingernail latch onto your delicate boy bits and leave just a bitey head attached while you run screaming and simultaneously stripping through the streets in a third world country wearing the tighty whities that should have kept ant heads off of your dangly bits.
PS. I like rum
PPS. I am also an proponent of the “write drunk, edit sober” philosophy.