Computer Ape Sex With Sarah Palin

Like many men who belong in a small room with barred windows, I would like to see Sarah Palin naked but cannot stand to hear her speak. Lots of guys feel that way about Britney Spears, too, if you substitute "sing" for "speak." Likewise Lindsay Lohan and, at times, our own wives (insert tongue click noise here).

The recent foo-faw over New York Rep. Anthony Weiner's doo-dah leaves hope that someday Sarah Palin may mis-Tweet, and we'll all be looking at her sans leather jacket — perhaps even without her glasses.

Oh, brave new world and all the naked people in it!

You can be sure that if nerd boy Weiner is tweeting beauty shots of his manhood, it's already become common in the rest of the culture.

Numerous friends of mine have, over the years, treated me to naked pictures of their girlfriends. Those pictures are now displayed on cell phones, but I remember the days when some beer-battered buddy of mine would sneakily withdraw a creased envelope from the inside pocket of his burgundy leather jacket and treat me to flash-lit, red-eyed pictures of some Terri or Stacey.

"I told her no one would ever see 'em but me," the guy would invariably laugh.

Then, I would buy the guy a drink, generally a little better brand than his usual.

We are all apes — apes with sexy computers. Given the world's mightiest communication tool, the Internet, we fill it with the gruntings and humpings of our baser selves. And yes, the first movie I ever saw on a VCR was porn.

How far we've come, brave little monkeys!

Used to be, if you wanted to sexually harass Paula in the Accounting Department, you had to get up your nerve, make up a fake errand in the Accounting Department, go down there with an unneeded piece of paper in your hand, try to catch her alone, between those two file cabinets in the back, and then ...

You tried for a clumsy kiss, a grab through a tight skirt.

So quaint, those days.

Now, you just snap a picture of yourself in your Sean John rap music undies, and boom your email goes right to her phone, and there she is, looking at your mountainous self in the frozen-food aisle of the Stop & Shop, hot love in one hand and a bag of frozen baby peas in the other.

I live in Massachusetts, home of the Kennedys and Barney Frank, so I am not likely to be repulsed by any politician's acts of sexual jiggery-pokery.

In fact, if you told me a Massachusetts politician had been caught having sex with a corpse, my only question would be: "So, how drunk was the Kennedy in question?"

But I undress, er, digress.

Poor little Weiner isn't a perv, he's just catching up to the latest evolutionary slide of the only apes who wear clothing.

Everything changes.

Used to be, I would leave my house, stop by the cigar store for a stogie, buy a newspaper and head to the local saloon, where I would talk to my buddies and play a little cards, and if I were not the nicest guy in the bar, I might attempt to fasten a hand onto the waitress's tempting rump.

Now, I can stay home, order my cigars from an e-tailer, read the paper online, Facebook my buddies, play some online Texas hold 'em and make a digital grab for any woman in the world.

My grandmother thought a woman was "easy" if she smoked cigarettes on the street. My father thought guys who wore pastel shirts might be a little "funny, if ya know what I mean." In high school, we knew that the boy HAD to ask the girl out. Girls who asked boys out were "askin' for it."

So, don't get down, little Weiner. Someday, sending a woman a picture of your erector set will be normal, like offering to buy an unattended female a drink or gulping a shy "hello" at the woman sitting next to you on the plane.

In the Internet, you've got a big new tool, like the steam engine was so long ago. Once we invented the steam engine, we HAD to build a railroad, just to have something to do with the steam engine. The railroads led to an increase in the number of traveling salesmen, which led almost immediately to a joke beginning with, "A traveling salesman stops at a farmhouse looking for a place to spend the night, and the farmer's daughter says, 'My father's not home, but ..."

That joke never ends, but thanks to the Internet, it gets around a lot faster than it used to.

To find out more about Marc Munroe Dion and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit www.creators.com.

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