I pride myself on providing a thorough treatment of any issue I confront. It has come to my attention, however, that I've overlooked at least three potential trouble spots in the genre of sex with the dead: animals, vegetables, and the comatose. I would be remiss, as such, if I did not work through them each, individually.
First, and probably most surprising from my perspective, is concern over the propriety of sex with dead animals. I say surprising because I would have thought anyone with even a tenuous grasp on the concept of property rights might understand that animals are possession with which we may do as we please.
For the sake of full disclosure, I think it germane at this point to state that I am not fundamentally against bestiality laws. They have their place along the spectrum of pro-business legislation. What commercial shepherd wants to dedicate even a sliver of his resources to scaring off gaggles of sheepfuckers from his land simply because they feel they are exercising a constitutionally-protected right? Just as stress makes hair on humans fall out or turn gray, you can be sure that unexpected, unsolicited sexual intercourse will have an effect on high-quality wool production.
On the other hand, once those sheep are dead and their wool shorn from their bodies, who is to say that shepherds necessarily have a better sense of the sheep's greatest utility? I would argue that the profusely sweating, internet-savvy bachelor with extra floor space has a much better idea. And even if he doesn't, if he pays the shepherd fair market price why should he not be able, in the privacy of his mother's basement, to do with its lifeless corpse what he sees fit.
Pets are obviously a little different. They are soft and cuddly, we give them as gifts to small children and girlfriends, and we insist on giving them people's names in an effort to make them part of the family. While this is a laudable endeavor on the part of parents and sentimental boyfriends, it has only served to impute to animals a sense of dignity and self-worth that runs counter to their destiny as post-mortem sex objects.
I have loved every dog I have ever had. My current dog, Buttercup, stays with my mom in California and is a bundle of lovability. When I'm home, we wrestle and go for walks. She sleeps on my bed most nights and makes a point of waking me up in the morning. But I've gotta tell you, once she dies, what's left? Memories? Fuck that. With the understanding that, during her life, I loved her unconditionally, there is no reason that in her death, I shouldn't be able to saw off her legs and make her my fuck puppet like King Friday from Mr. Rogers' Neighborhood. It doesn't change how I felt about her. Sure, she may no longer be able to come when I say so, but she can at least help me come when I say so.
Vegetables coming soon...
Posted by nils at 3:08 PM