Despite Tonight’s Ruling I Will Not Stop Making Love to My Wife Against Our Town Statue.
BY Jon Methven
Members of the Town Council, fellow citizens, neighbors from surrounding municipalities who have followed our civic dispute these last fourteen months, national media manipulating our local politics into morning show fodder—it appears the voters have spoken. While fifty-two percent have approved this new law, tonight’s ruling will not prevent me from making love to my wife against the side of our town statue.
Erected in 1779, the bronze figure upon a galloping steed, brandishing an obscure weapon with which he’s preparing to bloody something innocent and likely unarmed, has long been the pride of our municipality. Our history lost in the town hall fire of 1837 and the statue’s plaque having worn off a century ago, we have no idea who the rider on horseback might be, or who built the monument, or even what it stands for. Nevertheless, it has long been a symbol of our solidarity as a people, which I think we can all agree has been besmirched here this evening, with our petty squabbling and politicking over where one man chooses to lay his wife of twenty-seven years.
Shame on all of us!
How did the private affairs of two taxpayers become the most divisive issue in our town’s history? In a presidential election year, even miniscule politics are of national importance. Our local Republican candidates, looking to lock down the conservative vote, cited a desecration to family values. Their Democratic rivals then weighed in, calling the most intimate act two lovers can share upon a bygone effigy an obstruction of local hygiene laws. And the political machine took over.
No one was more surprised than my wife and I to learn our town did not already have in place legislation to prohibit statue copulation. All along we thought we were breaking the law, which was what made it exciting. Upon learning it was not illegal, we planned instead to use the roof of the sheriff’s cruiser, or perhaps the wheelchair ramp at the retirement home. Then, in a show of bipartisanship, the Republicans and Democrats came together to propose a series of universal statue sex laws, which we all voted on this evening.
This election has transformed us into a town divided. Some thought it was a waste of tax dollars to hold a public ballot about a personal freedom such as statue sex. Others pointed out that our ongoing election had made every national morning show in the country and we were humiliating ourselves. Pro-Life and Pro-Choice factions inexplicably marched in Town Square. We became a tourist attraction, people driving hundreds of miles to photograph themselves atop our statue. Town officials began charging fees for photographs. Three separate riots resulted in citizens attempting to set ablaze the statue, unsuccessfully. Neighbors argued. Lifelong friendships deteriorated. Upon realizing fellow citizens were having kinkier sex, couples that were married for decades divorced.
When you look at our town statue, you will see a man riding a horse, and depending on where you stand, it appears he is either galloping or nearly falling off. He’s holding a weapon and preparing to strike down a foe, perhaps someone who was laughing at him for falling off his horse. Sometimes, late at night while you all slumber, I look at the statue and often think it might be a female rider, and the horse appears to be smiling at me. I find myself wishing the original sculptors had bronzed more of the scene, expanding the statue into a panoramic view so we could determine what it’s about. This is a long way of saying that I’m fairly drunk right now.
When I first began speaking several moments ago, I intended this to be an inspirational moment, detailing how all of us see a little of ourselves in that clumsy rider. And should any of you look out there tonight, just after last call at the Sticky Wicket, you’ll see a man, dressed much as I am at this podium, putting aside petty politics and making love to his wife against a bronzed horse flank. Because that’s how you keep the sex fresh after twenty-seven years.
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