Somewhere along the way, culturally speaking, older women got a whole lot sexier. That is to say, you watch television, you watch movies, you put on a Madonna album, or you read something by Anne Rice, and older women seem to be depicted more and more as being sexual deviants. You know the old lady who looked after Tweety Bird in the Bugs Bunny and Roadrunner Show? She probably got her kink on with that umbrella she always seemed to be carrying (the fact that she carried it even on sunny days was a dead giveaway). It's a sick world where old ladies do nasty things that some pornstars probably wouldn't even touch with a ten foot pole or they would touch a ten foot pole sexually, but not the acts that old ladies perform with said sexual ten foot poles. Where was I going with this? I forget in the mental haze that is comprised of pornstars, ten foot poles, and old ladies...
Oh yeah...I was talking about old ladies. Thank god for back tracking.
Don't mention it, Michael.
So anyway, the reason why I mention all these older ladies with their sick, sick perversions is because the other day I saw a man wearing a t-shirt that read: I Love Cougars. I didn't pause to ask him if he was referring to the kind of cougars that play with balls of yarn and eat mountain goats or the kind of cougars that play with balls of semen and eat mountain goats only not in the way that the other cougars eat mountain goats.
Excuse me while I pat myself on the back for that last mental image.
Okay, so I took it to mean that he was referring to cougars who were not felines.
Damn it, Michael, would you come to the point already? What do MILFs and crusty, old tavern wenches have to do with relativity?
The guy who was wearing said t-shirt was easily in his mid-40's. Relatively speaking a cougar to him should be eating earth worms instead of mountain goats, or, more accurately, be getting eaten by earth worms only not in the way that she ate mountain goats which was not the way that those other cougars eat mountain goats. Relatively speaking. Did he really love cougars in his mid-40's? Was he, in fact, some sort of necrophiliac? Or was he a furry? Why did his pants have so many stains? Why were his fingernails yellow? How many rhetorical questions can a guy ask in an essay about bingo hussies before it gets annoying?
The guy really loves his sexually charged dynamos who shopped for support hose and sported the latest kerchief fashions straight from the dollar bin at Wal-Mart or Canadian Tire or wherever the fuck it is that really, really old women do their kerchief shopping sprees.
Mildred? Mildred? It's Mable, I just called to tell you that the pension cheque just came in and I have an inkling to spend it on itchy dresses, fake pearls, and kerfchiefs, lots and lots of kerchiefs. I'll call the geriatric wagon, let's go to Kinko's (or wherever in the hell it is us old ladies like to shop)!
That concludes the role-play portion of this essay, now back to the point.
"Cougar" is a term that is relative like a lot of things. Proof of this resides in the fact that when I was just a young sprout in the world I considered women who are now the age that I am to be cougars. I am the male equivolent of a cougar to young women. I'm sexually charged and I eat mountain sheep (they're female mountain goats, don't you know?) But now that I am the age of what I once considered the cougar cut-off line those women whom young sprout Michael Appleby would have considered cougars are just plain old women (sorry plain, old women, you just aren't that dignified to be labelled cougars anymore). Cougars to me, now, are women who are that age that their teenage children wander the malls and leave their sexy mothers home alone for the afternoon.
But you, sir with the t-shirt, you should probably avoid cougars now because they would be really, really, really old.
Or just buy a new t-shirt that reads: I Am Sexually Aroused By Women My Own Age. And then on the back you can put: Really Old. Ha Ha Ha.
I'm totally going to invent that t-shirt and become rich.
Or maybe you were actually a furry the whole time. In which case, kindly disregard all of this because it was all for naught. And seriously, you like mountain goats for real? Sick. Just sick.