Weekend News Summary

Kissing Black-tailed Prairie Dogs (Cynomys lud...

Kissing Black-tailed Prairie Dogs (Cynomys ludovicianus). Français : Chiens de prairie à queue noire (Cynomys ludovicianus) se faisant la bise. 日本語: キスしてるオグロプレーリードッグ (Cynomys ludovicianus) (Photo credit: Wikipedia)

Yes, here it is my sparkling little diamonds of lust, the not-so-breaking-weekend-news-summary.

Cozy up with an icy mimosa and get ready for a titillating journey through the basic news stories of the weekend.

The gap between the rich and poor widens. Artists continue to pump out inspiring, heart-wrenching and thought-provoking work, and someone has written a self-indulgent book.

Yes sweeties, that just about sums it up. However, I am going to enlighten you with how all of it ties together in the teeny, tiny, immaculately decorated chambers of my girl-brain.

First, let me discuss the self-indulgent book review about The Art of Sleeping Alone, by Sophie Fontanel. This isn’t a title that would catch my eye, so God bless Globe writer Sarah Hampson for the warning.

Basically some French broad gives up sex at the age of 27, and has orgasmic experiences with nature, and her own sensations of the wild, wonderful and sometimes wicked world in which we live. End of summary darlings.

Skip to the front page of the Globe TO section that highlights the differences between two rivals fighting for the federal riding of Toronto Center. It’s a face off of pretty faces as the liberals (boo) and the NDP (yay) talk about how they will vie for the seat amongst the poorest of the poor and richest of the rich.

The interview consists of questions focused on the ever-widening, vastly dangerous gap between the rich and the poor. Of course the liberal walks a fine line (after all, she’s led by the ever handsome born-with-a-silver-spoon-in-my mouth descendant of Canadian royalty), and the NDP fight for the underdog.

I, on the other hand realize that myself and most of my contempories belong to the group of folks working our tushes off to carry the upper-class. Ugh. Not sexy darlings, not sexy at all.

We are however, the artists and dreamers that keep the human spirit alive. Creativity, the great mother of art, only swells under oppression and strife. Raise your glass fellow writers, for we are the subversive, joyous protector of the soul.

The front page this weekend, “Toward a New Brazil” takes us to a country that has recovered from the dire economy, resulting violence, poverty and crime as predicted will be our gloomy economic future of have and have-nots.

Now, doesn’t that make you want to snuggle? Seriously, doesn’t it make you want to hold everyone near and dear to you a little tighter, celebrate the simple things, and have someone to snuggle up with at the end of a long, hard day?

Exactly. Just what I thought my delicate little songbird. Just what I thought.

As far as Sophie Fontanel’s book is concerned, I know what it’s like to never want to have sex again. Basically, her predicament is summed up as having suffered a lot of bad sex, resulting in her preferring celibacy.

Believe it or not, I can relate. Following my last long-term relationship, the last thing I wanted was to have any man touch me. Yes darlings, that’s how absolutely appallingly repulsed I felt about him. I vowed a year of celibacy. It only lasted a few weeks, but I’ve been to the edge darlings, and have made it back.

I reveled in stretching out in my bed, not having to wake up to some whiner who’s first words every day were negative. I loved not sleeping with someone who snored. I especially enjoyed falling asleep without wanting to launch the horse’s ass out of my window. Ah, yes, the bliss of sleeping alone.

I’m not one to lose hope though my darlings. I know that there are still wonderful, loving, handsome, deliciously sensual men out there who make my heart skip a beat, have handsome shoulders on which I can rest my pretty, little head, and who have hugs that, no matter what, make me feel loved, safe and ready to take on the world again.

So, in light of our decidedly selfish upper-class and toiling lower class, wouldn’t you feel better curling up beside the love of your life, or perhaps the love of a season, taking refuge in the beauty and simplicity of love?

Screw this French celibacy celebration and bring me my champagne!

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