Adrienne Barbeau: Praise for the Days Before Silcone

by Seamus O'Goolihy (guest blogger)

As a young lad in Ireland, I was confronted with two problems: one, there wasn't much television--as a child, the shows were mostly just still pictures of the saints, with a narration from the local priest--added to that, what with my eighteen brothers and sisters and both sets of grandparents packed into our small Dublin house, I had almost no refuge, no haven where I could release my sexual desires. Thus, I was missing two crucial elements any teenage boy would need in such a pubescent endeavor: space and inspiration.

Then one evening, as the church bells called all of us children in from play, I heard a strange sound coming from the telly. It was a song. A show from America! Maude was its name, complete with real-life actors and color as well. Then, as I sat on the sofa to have a look, she appeared: a dark-haired woman with swinging breasts the size of which I had never seen. Within half a second, I imagined myself an ancient Roman coming home from battle, and she, my wife, my lovetoy, with whom I could release any and all of my desires. As I imagined myself tearing off her robe and and exposing her milky-white mammoths, I exploded with such force, the jism tearing through my trousers and onto the floor near Grandpa Murtaugh's clubfoot. Lucky was I that young Connor was eating a bowl of porridge on the floor, and I could blame my predicament on him before searching for some privacy, for the woman who excited my loins was still on the screen, and I was ready for the second salvo. Indeed, while I was more devoted than any other man to Maude and the actress I grew to know as Adrienne Barbeau, I couldn't so much as hear the words "and then there's Maude" without running to the bathroom with my hands across my groin.

So I'll end my story with this: the years since Maude have given television audiences many other well endowed ladies, but with the advent of silicone implants and women like that pathetic cougar Demi Moore, I doubt the honesty of any modern girl, which is why, when 'tis time to release my milky manhood, I hearken back to an era of truth and beauty, and the queen of the age, Adrienne Barbeau. John Carpenter, may you rot in hell, you lucky bastard!