For the average person, there are two stages to any kind of exorbitant purchase. The first stage involves looking into the top of the line version, admiring it for everything that it is, and accepting that it is way outside of your budget. The second means deciding whatever version you can ultimately afford (re: settle for).
Searching through BMWs is no different. At first, I find myself visiting the BMW website and going straight to the #sexyAF BMWi8. After whispering, “someday, someday” (rather unrealistically) to my (partially deluded) self, I then enter the second stage…leaving the BMW site altogether to price more economical family-friendly sedans.
All About The Benjamins. What?
As an average American single father kicking down the door to 40, my ship has sailed. While there are plenty of opportunities left for me to drive kick-ass cars, I do expect that they will be of the more economical variety. It’s reasonable to expect that, with my daughter entering her teens, I can consider trading in my four-door V6 Charger for a Challenger Hellcat. That makes good sense, and is the perfect marriage of ambition and budget.
After all, I doubt that I fit the demographic for this car. I’m not a wealthy entrepreneur. I’m not a confusedly tattooed rapper with an equally confusing name consisting of numbers and misspelled words. Nor am I a dead-behind-the-eye Kardashian (dating a confusedly tattooed rapper with an equally confusing name consisting of numbers and misspelled words).
So why would I even look for a BMW? Why do I place so much esteem in the likes of the BMWi8? Why do I find myself thinking about ways to raise the kind of money I’d need to make such an obscenely priced purchase?
Maybe it’s a combination of American consumerism and what remains of my youthful idealism. Or maybe it’s a combination of six beers and the antihistamine I took earlier in the day (because allergies, am I right?) All I know is that somewhere between David Lee Roth and Patrick Dempsey, my preteen mind was implanted with the perfect solution to life’s monetary woes.
I should have casual sex for money.
Anyone reading this who’s around my age may recall the classic 80s movie ‘Loverboy.’ In fact, those slightly younger may be familiar with the premise, since it was parodied in an early 2000’s pop punk video ‘I Feel Fine’ by the Riddlin’ Kids, but I digress…
The movie is based around a southern California college student played by Patrick Dempsey who, cut off by his parents after flunking out, needs to earn tuition money in order to return the following semester. Taking a job as a delivery boy for Señor Pizza, he encounters a wealthy seductress while delivering her pizza with extra anchovies. The encounter goes viral through the gossip circles of the wealthy, with many an unsatisfied wife ordering pizzas ‘with extra anchovies’ in the hopes that the Señor Pizza delivery boy will come and take care of their physical needs. Long story short, he makes a ton of money, learns a lot about the needs of women, and comes dangerously close to banging his mom.
The way I see it, I only need the money. Unfortunately, times have changed and, despite my ridiculous overconfidence (being a solid 4 / soft 5 out of 10) I don’t think that a 39-year old pizza delivery boy would fare too well in the high-stakes gigolo game. And even if one did, I have to think that my clientele in North Central Massachusetts might lack some of Southern California’s aesthetic sex appeal.
I can imagine the visual. Delivering a pizza with extra anchovies to Karen, a mother of four, who works nights at Cumberland Farms but wants “it” to be quick because she has to hit the New Hampshire packie since cartons of Marlboro Menthols are “wicked cheap up there.”
As I crack open my seventh beer, and pop another Benadryl to silence the sound of Karen yelling, “Hahhh-da! Hahhh-da!” I realize that maybe I’m not cut out to be a pizza-delivery gigolo.
Bop, Boze-de-Boze-de-Bop, Se-de-Bop
David Lee Roth. Why hast thou forsaken me? All these years of secretly wanting to be paid for every dance while selling each romance…it was your fault. The aspiring gigolos to the right of me might have been inspired by the likes of Richard Gere. And those to the left of me might have been inspired by Deuce Bigalow. But you, sir, with your Louis Prima cover were my original inspiration to grow up and be “Just a Gigolo.”
And now, here I am. With no means of sexual revenue (aside from the likes of Karen) there’s little point in my searching for BMWs. Using your own words against you, “Life Goes On Without Me” and I suppose that I’ll never be able to afford that BMWi8. Sure, I could continue to work hard and save. But where’s the sex…I mean, where’s the fun in that?
The More You Know
All jokes aside, I have no real interest in having casual sex for money. Sure, part of it is the fact that the gigolo game isn’t what it used to be. Part of it is that being around that much pizza wouldn’t be good for me, since I just can’t jog off the carbs like I used to.
But whether we’re talking about the BMWi8, a Challenger Hellcat, or whatever vehicle floats your proverbial boat…each represents the best challenges of life. We live in a society where we can set goals, and through hard work and perseverance, we can obtain them. Whether our ability to do so is based around acquiring the money, or simply rewarding ourselves for following through, the beauty of our world is that any goal is attainable, if we commit to it. Sorry, we’ll have to finish this later, my phone’s ringing.
Shit. It’s Karen.