Some colorful questions for the teenagers of America.

I may have mentioned before that I find humanity perplexing.

And it is on weekends like this that my perplexation reaches vexation.

You see, since Thursday, young lovers have chosen our Pond banks to canoodle away from the glare of human eyes and video cameras.

(Thankfully, America seems rather less enamored of dogging, which is a very English habit. Essentially, people arrive at various parking lots and watch each other having sex in or on their cars. It’s the closest the English get to sharing.)

The Pond-visiting youngsters coo absurdities at each other (“Yes, of course I will love you for ever.” “You’re my first one. Really.” And the ever ridiculous: “I forgot the condoms.”) and generally make each other believe this is far more than a grubby grope by a pongy pond.

But there is one absurdity that gets my goat in a way that thrusts me dangerously in the direction of psychopathic goatophobia.

It’s the girls who usually go for this one. They look into the boy’s eyes with all the worshipful reverence of someone who just got $300 off a plasma at Best Buy on Thanksgiving and then utter some of the most stupid words ever uttered by humans:

“What’s your favorite color?”

What kind of an achingly, bile-makingly asinine question is that?

I know cliches are supposed to be receptacles of truth. But, please, humans, how can you have an opinion on the superiority of, say, blue to green?

Have I gone loopier than a penguin in the desert or does color not depend on the thing that is colored?

You see, the boy hoping to get a little tug by the Pond may declare that his favorite color is purple. But would he really prefer a purple sky to a blue one? Would he prefer purple grass to green?

Would be prefer purple rain to..oh, come on, please, this is more insane than calling your band The Sex Maggots.

(Which one band actually did, before their record company dragged them bodily away from it as if they were syphilitics trying to get into a Kansas City bordello. What name did they end up with? Why, the very sensible Goo Goo Dolls.)

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And the girl by the Pond, the one who knows she is there to be a tug boat to the cargo ship of the boy’s desires, she might declare that pink was the hue that made her eyes water.

Well, why isn’t her Ford Taurus pink?

Why aren’t her $200 jeans pink?

Why aren’t her reefer papers pink?

In this world of multiple choices that add up to very little at all, there are no absolutes.

So can we please lay to rest this most absurd of inquiries?

No one on earth wants a yellow car, green underwear, an orange armchair, blue lips, beige sheets, red televisions, gold MacBooks, magenta airplanes, snot-colored shoes or purple bloody rain.

Even if, in a moment of love-spattered lucidity, they claim each of those is their favorite color.

When someone tells you their favorite color is black it simply means that they are either blond, or that black hides the fact that they are less proportionally blessed than your average pregnant Samoan. Pregnant Samoan with triplets.

So may I offer the Pond-visiting tumescent teenies some alternative questions, based on the truths of these times, to make their amorous assignations go even more smoothly than a hatefest in Philadelphia:

1. What do you prefer? Zits or crabs?

2. If you had to have plastic surgery what would you have done first? Your nose or your bottom?

3. My parents are divorced. Whose bed should we have sex in first? My Dad’s? Or my Mom’s and her new lesbian lover’s? (This question may only be pertinent on either coast.)

4. If the Police find us with our crack stash, are you prepared to say it had nothing to do with me?

5. To the nearest hundred thousand dollars, what is your parents’ net worth? And how much of it are you likely to get?

Can I get back to listening to my Moody Blues’ album on my brown iPod now?

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