One of the characters in a certain Japanese comic strip who appeals to most readers is Master Happosai, who in addition to being a martial artist of unparalleled skill is also a fossilized dirty old man of monumental proportion. It is that latter aspect which gives him his charm.
How can you not admire a twenty-inch tall depraved person?
I suspect that many of the Japanese adults who read Ranma ½ would like to be just like him when they grow old.
Well, except for the women fans. They probably already know someone like that. The type is universal. Even now, I suspect, there is a degenerate elderly midget staring at some girl's panties with saucer-sized google-eyes.
Are there women like that? Like Happosai, that is, but the female version? No, I don't mean cougars, but genuinely perverted ancient sex-maniacs who go around touching younger males inappropriately? And stealing their April-fresh boxer shorts from apartment building clothing lines?
In all fairness, there should be. How sad that reading about them would not excite one iota of envy, but might instead prompt titillated revulsion. Truly we have a long way to go as a civilization.
It's a question of equality.
SUBJECTIVE OBJECTIFICATION
Being safely beyond the tender age when a young man is a sex-object slobbered over by handbag queens at department stores, or chased by sixty-year-old blonde monsters with augmented breasts, lips, eyes, and noses, like the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills, I can safely say that.
I can walk down a street past female construction workers without a single one of them whistling or yelling salacious comments at me.
Yep, I'm that old. Besides, I smoke a pipe.
Real women just HATE that.
Sexists.
I think I'll buy myself some nice underwear for my fifty-fourth birthday.
All-cotton boxers, with a cute pattern of fuzzy little animals.
In fancy colours. Or maybe just plain blue.
Still several months to go.
I can barely wait.
Zesty pants.
Heh!
Yes?
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