Phillip wins today's pic prize.
Yes, folks. Today, on this gloomy day, we are going to discuss "cougars". And the phenomenon known as "boy toys". I feel that, much like your winter tummy, some definition is required here.
Cougar - an older woman, out on the prowl for a younger man to service her.
Boy Toy - a younger man too fucking lazy to learn the subtle art of schmoozing chicks his own age or younger, getting piss drunk and waking up in a flat in Camps Bay with regrets the next morning.
The term "cougar" is used to describe tanned, fake divorcees that think their vast sexual prowess (a level of experience eclipsed only by their desperation to get laid) is attractive to men that fall into an age group that would see them being on the same sports teams as these predators' sons. They're usually found in small gaggles (or "support groups") sipping expensive cocktails through straws and wearing less than sensible shoes. Their leathery skins are testament to lives lived in the lap of luxury - until the bread winner was either bled dry, or traded her lazy arse in for a newer model. This usually results in the application of too much make up and too little clothing. These "visions" (or apparitions, as I like to call them) then stalk their hapless prey at bars all up and down the West Coasts of every civilised country in the World. The "toy boys" in question have no idea what's about to happen to them. Face it, most of the time they just have no idea. About anything. I refuse to believe that any individual that allows themselves to be dressed by Markhams, pop up collar and all, who spends a small mortgage on drinks in a place that plays shit music, who only owns the Best Of Johnny Clegg and Prime Circle's Greatest Hits (along with that Toto cd his china burned for him for the car) has any value to add to the human race whatsoever. Besides light comic relief. And keeping cougars the fuck away from me, were I ever stupid enough to find myself in one of these unfortunate establishments...
Can you picture the scenario? Boy toy engages in hysterical recount of some chick he pomped - to the delighted amusement and constant high fives of his assembled cast of loafer wearing buddies, drinking Heineken or Castle Light and making inappropriate comments about the one genuinely good looking girl in the place, just loud enough for her to hear. Meanwhile, skulking at the end of the bar, Janine and her mates sit and ogle the cute butts of their intended victims, all the time making mocking comparisons to their ex husbands and indulging in the tried and trusted "come hither" laughter that's as fake as their tans and also audible enough to interest the idiot boys.
What happens next? Your guess is as good as mine. Perhaps a pair of eyes meeting across the room or an openly suggestive glance that says "Ladies loo or Gents?" Anyway, some time in the proceeding I bet there's enough alcohol involved and Janine is being railed with her diamante anklet waving about in the air like the fist of a rallying COSATU supporter.
The next morning - oh I don't know, let's call him CLINT - wakes up to find the face of his supposed conquest smeared on the pillow next to him and Medusa lying there in her place. He makes his excuses or escape and goes out that night with his chinas with a fantastic tale of this, like, awesome chick he pomped. How does he do it!
Janine calls her ex husband and asks for money. She'll need several hours of intensive work before she can go out tonight.
I prefer the BOY TOYS pictured above. I'm a real boy.
NGDG: "Jaws Of Life is a silly name. I propose Hydraulic Meat Extraction Scissors."
Spread The Love. Age Appropriately.