Postcard humor horror does not end with this visual masterpiece. With so much to share about Europe, why would anyone send a black postcard? Within the romantic city of Florence, Italy, Raphael's engaging painting Galatea, Ghiberti's divine "Gates of Paradise" and Botticelli's spirited Primaverra can all be found. Yet no image captures the passion of the city as well as a postcard of the crotch of Michelangelo's David--framing his penis with glasses drawn on it to make his genitals look like a face. The answer to your question is "no", nothing is sacred in the kingdom of postcards.
Back home in San Diego the postal humor is not much better. The site of mammoth waves crashing against the deep green moss that engulfs the rocky cliffs is not uncommon. If a visitor would like to remember this scene, (or at least rub it in the face of someone in Wisconsin sleeping next to the oven to keep warm) good luck sorting through the endless array of "skin postcards" featuring tanned flesh rather than mossy cliffs.
(While I'm ranting, "Baywatch" is the most watched show in the world. One billion viewers. Say that with me...,"One Billion people watch 'Baywatch'." Now say it again and don't forget to stress the 'Bih' in billion. Now crawl into a fetal position and weep. Now write your local cable company asking them to bring back "Starsky and Hutch")
Are the people featured on these cards... say as a 'bun model' (I'm guessing on the terminology here) still able to say that they are models? "Yes, I'm here about the modelling job. Here is the portfolio of my ass."
What it comes down to is, no matter where you are, if you show your pathetic friends in Wichita (probably avid Baywatch fans) pictures of naked people, they will envy you, thus accomplishing the reason you sent the postcard in the first place. Besides, sending postcards is a safe way to pretend that you are thinking of your friends at home while you drink excessively, spend frivolously, and rest passionately. The card is so small that it is understood that emotional and space limitations exist. A heartfelt letter would be microscopic and would probably get covered by random stampings imposed by the U.S. Postal Service, who are more than likely sitting around giggling like school kids while reading your dull recap of the weather.
And the idea of postal workers reading my scribblings pleases me to no end. As a postcard is not sealed, it is therefore public reading. I personally find myself writing erotic cards to imaginary addresses in hope that hundreds of people read it before it is finally destroyed. I imagine men and women in light blue government-issued uniforms sweating nervously while discovering my kinky tales of moist passion and lust about people with names like Antonio and Monique. I picture these formerly disgruntled employees so overwhelmed by my sensual descriptions that they defy federal law and stuff the small, steamy pieces of cardboard in their pockets to take home and adore...
Maybe I should get some friends.
you can read more of Kaya's ranting in BLEED
Copyright © 1997 Prehensile Tales.