Must be a generation gap thing.

We just don’t get this ridiculous contretemps in Korangu Nadu over the alleged actions of that TV actress being a hooker, this bathycolpian film starlet a Rs 1-lakh an hour wench, that gammer actress a Rs 30,000-a-day trollop or that bald, lickerish actor sleeping with some franion a few decades back.

A farcical storm in a kapi-cup, if you ask us.

Like Henry Miller, we know all women are cu*ts and all men pric*s.

Simple. Life distilled to its essence, na.

Why all this angst and outrage, feigned or otherwise, over an aging doxy, a buxom quean or a glabrous john.

So, all ye Boeotian denizens stop this annoying she’s-a-Rs 1-lakh slattern, he’s-a-pimp poppycock, smell the roses and look around at the boundless variety of cu*ts and pric*ks out there.

None has described the rich pickings of pric*s and pussi*s in the world more charmingly than the American author Henry Miller.

Like Miller’s telescopic dicks, pricks that expanded and pricks that blew up like balloons, his cu*ts too come in a myriad different species:

There are cunts which laugh and cunts which talk: there are crazy, hysterical cunts shaped like ocarinas and there are planturous, seismographic cunts which register the rise and fall of sap; there are cannibalistic cunts which open wide like the jaws of the whale and swallow alive; there are also masochistic cunts which close up like the oyster and have hard shells and perhaps a pearl of two inside: there are dithyrambic cunts which dance at the very approach of the penis and go wet all over in ecstasy; there are the porcupine cunts which unleash their quills and wave little flags at Christmas time: there are telegraphic cunts which practise the Morse code and leave the mind full of dots and dashes; there are the political cunts which are saturated with ideology and which deny even the menopause; there are vegetative cunts which make no response unless you pull them up by the roots; there are religious cunts which smell like Seventh Day Adventists and are full of beads, worms, clamshells, sheep droppings and now and then dried breadcrumbs; there are the mammalian cunts which are lined with otter skin and hibernate during the long winter; there are cruising cunts fitted out like yachts, which are good for solitaries and epileptics; there are glacial cunts in which you can drop shooting stars without causing a flicker; there are miscellaneous cunts which defy category or description, which you stumble on once in a lifetime and which leave you seared and branded; there are cunts made of pure joy which have neither name nor antecedent and these are the best of all, but whither have they flown?

And then there is the one cunt which is all, and this we shall call the super-cunt….

– Tropic of Capricorn by Henry Miller, P.194-195

So, dive in and lap up the honey, we say in our Panglossian stupor.

When the goal ought to be to turn into modern-day Dr.Livingstones, exploring the dark nooks and crevices of unexplored cuntinents, y’all are getting your knickers and panties in a twist with all this cockamamie hand-wringing dirges and lamentations.

Schmucks, all.

We throw down the gauntlet now: what’s wrong if an actress-past-her-prime turns tricks?

Cool, we say. More power to her pus*y.

You go, girl.

And what’s wrong if a besotted john seeks his salvation in the past-her-prime actress.

More importantly, what’s wrong in a Lothario lavishing Rs 1-lakh an hour on his pet nymphet if he can afford to splurge.

Turning tricks too keeps the wheels of the economy turning, doesn’t it.

The low-down (it all comes down to down eventually, doesn’t it) of capitalism is all about buying and selling. No different in Korangu Nadu.

You buy what you can afford. You sell what fetches the best prize.

High time we legalize prostitution and put an end to all this distracting blather of vaedhanai, vekkam (agony and shame) et al.

By the way, what’s the shortest route to Shastri Nagar in Chennai? We’d appreciate a Google Map. 😉