Pictured here looking like a peanut with cancer.
The singer-songwriter is a fragile creature and to bruise its ego is akin to telling a bee that it's too fat to fly, thus removing any semblance of aerodynamics it once held, causing it to drop out of the sky and ruin middle-class breakfasts the whole world over. This is, however, the shocking truth that lies buried beneath decades of solid-gold pop songs such as "The Police", and "Missing You". So how can we as a people avert this crisis? The answer is simple: we show him love. The problem is that words can only go so far - eventually a boy will realise that the reason his platonic friend wants to remain 'just friends' is because of his potato-like appearance and eBay-bought nunchucks. The only solution is the physical act of love, and so I present to you the following...
Three Scenarios In Which You Might Have Sex With Sting
You see, you can single-handedly put an end to his crippling self-doubt, but I know that as things stand you don't really want to have sex with someone who, even at his best, only ever looked like a blonde pineapple. This leads me to the following scenarios which, should you ever find yourself in, copulation with Sting could be considered an option, or at the very least, 'taking one for the team'.
1. The Post-Apocalypse
1. The Post-Apocalypse
For whatever reason, the world has turned to dust and leather-clad biker gangs have seized control of whatever passes for currency in this dank future (probably buttons). You and your animal pal of choice roam through the wastelands, barely surviving on the meat of rats and contaminated water. Eventually you happen upon an outpost, almost a town, with gates constructed specifically to guard from the mutant chimps that instead of evolving into rational creatures capable of empathy and highly complex thought, instead evolved the ability to rip our cocks off and bury them in the dirt. You enter seeking shelter and after negotiating a room you decide to unwind at the bar. The days prior have taken their toll and you slump into your booth, not even raising your eyes to meet the waitress when ordering your potato vodka. Soon, however, you become aware of sound... It's a soothing sound, one not of these barren lands; a fusion of commercially viable soft-rock and a genre you wouldn't call jazz unless you were straining for credibility in a market that has rejected you. You try to pin it down but your mind is at a loss until, eventually, you turn your head and see it: a being of pure benevolence, his hair non-existent but his cranial stubble proudly declaring that if it were there, it would be awesome. Your eyes meet and you know instantly that it's Sting. Shocked, you sit back down, and as your mind races so does his set. It's a humble set, no requests or any of the hits (he wanted to try some new stuff which he'd hoped you'd like, but didn't really care if you did) and you're about to leave when you feel a hand on your shoulder. Your eyes meet once again with this glowing figure and you know in your heart that he wants a handjob at the very least. What are you to do? The world is in ruins, mankind is waning, all we can do is play as the Titanic sinks, so do you want to be the person who threw the violins overboard? No, my friend. You must fuck Sting.
Hang in there, kitty!
2. Sunday Morning
The kids are screaming, the spouse is complaining about his/her something, your parents are calling to get you to explain how Sky+ works "Just one last time, dear" - oh, man, it's Sunday! It's all getting to be a bit too much to be honest. I mean, you were going to be something but then something happened and now your life is just a big fat mess. There is one form of salvation though; today your significant other is taking the kids out all day for once. You have the house to yourself at last, so now you can finally unwind, get naked, load Google Street View and pretend you're a naked space-angel following people as they go about their day. It's all going according to plan until you hear a knock at the door... Who could it be? Well, of course it's Sting. He's just moved in down the road, and since hot water is just normal water made angry, his wife Trudie despises kettles and because of this he hasn't had a cup of tea in years. You invite him in and immediately set about making the perfect cup of tea, engaging in small talk and getting to know him better. The tea is a success and he thanks you for it with a signed copy of his top 40 hit 'Desert Rose'. He's about to leave when he confides in you that he does sometimes have doubts about his genius, that maybe if he hadn't written the song 'Until...' for the film Kate & Leopold would some other musician have done it just as easily? This is a dire situation, and you think of the faces of your children; you think about them growing up in a world without a regular appearance by Sting on The Culture Show. You can't let that happen. You shelve your plans to watch karate films for training purposes in case you're ever attacked in the street and steel yourself for what is to come. You must fuck Sting.
Sting will grant you one game of chess, but you're
only postponing your inevitable death.
3. Car Showroom
Your current car has given you some good memories, or rather facilitated your good memories by acting as a means of transportation with which to travel to a location where good memories took place, or maybe you did just have a party in your car - it's not important now. The important thing is that you've decided to buy a new car with all that money you made selling your childhood toys on eBay (I hope Captain Soft Hugs doesn't haunt you in your dreams). As you watch other people dutifully traverse the floor, kicking tyres and inflating their cheeks in shock at the prices in the car windows, you try and find a spot where you can fart without raising any eyebrows. You think you're alone, but before you can relax physically a pair of firm hands grip you by the shoulders and a voice fills your head; it's as soft as a hummingbird, murmuring something about change for the vending machine because it'll be damned if it's breaking into a £10 note just for a Drifter. You turn your body, and before you can even begin recommending it buys Fruit Pastilles instead since they last longer and have the added value bonus of variety you discover the voice belongs to international pop sensation Sting! Immediately you begin asking him if he's here to buy a car as he licensed his song 'Desert Rose' to a 2001 car advertisement which some felt was massively hypocritical as he was claiming to be quite an environmentalist at the time. He says he is not, and that he merely enjoys stalking the showroom floors of car dealerships since it reminds him of the jungle. You don't even question that sentence. Having deprived you of your bus fare home and rebutted your idea of teaming up for an autobiography which also incorporated a sub-plot about the decline in population of the European bee (Will There Ever Bee Another Sting?) he begins to slink away. It's now you realise you can't let this happen. You grit your teeth and clench your hands into fists, destroying the cone-shaped polystyrene cup in your right hand that was going to be a party hat for your cat on his next birthday. You call his name and he turns towards you, hoping in his heart you'll tell him you love him, but you won't tell him... You'll show him. You'll fuck Sting.
A panther exuding Sting-like levels of intensity
and the desire to eat smaller mammals.
So now that you know what to do in at least three potential Sting scenarios, it's up to you to get out there and make them happen. Good luck, Sting-fuckers!
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