Author's Note: "Beavis & Butthead" and all related affiliates are the brain (?) child of Mike Judge and MTV. This is dedicated to Travis, whom I started this for on a day when he really needed something to cheer him up, and also, to my Principles of Clinical Assessment textbook, which, at the time, I was fervently avoiding. The statistics used for this story are approximations found via the Ask Jeeves search engine, and probably are very rough ones, at that.
Dudes & Chicks
The average American teenager spends five hours a day watching television. They spend about thirty-five hours at school every week, and consume seven-hundred pounds of junk food every year.
Beavis and Butthead were not average teenagers. If they racked up hours at school, they were incredibly non-productive ones, and there seemed to be no end to their television viewing. Pretty much the only thing they liked better than sitting in front of the boob tube on their nacho-stained couch was sitting in front of the boob tube and eating pretty much anything that came into their possession. Miraculously, both boys seemed possessive of an incredibly quick metabolism, with which they remained skinny and knobby-kneed, if not pimply and, well, dumb.
Idealistic though their world was, however, life for Beavis and Butthead had its flaws. Some, like a lack of economic prosperity and dissatisfaction with academia and future career goals, were of little to no importance to the duo; when one (or two) is (are) not particularly intelligent (which is a nice way of putting it), one has no need for anything below surface level thoughts. And when it comes to Beavis and Butthead, even those tend to be riddled in the most animalistic concepts.
"Hey Butthead," Beavis said on one of these not-so-rare (AT ALL) occasions, "I'm bored."
"Huh huh," Butthead replied eloquently. "You're a dillweed."
"Heh, no I'm not," Beavis protested. "What should we do, Butthead?" The two stared at the blank television screen in front of them for several minutes.
"We should watch TV," Butthead finally put forth. Several more moments passed before one of them made to reach for the remote control and click it on.
"Dude, I hate the Shopping Network," Beavis whined. "Look, it's just some chick advertising a really expensive can opener."
"Heh, you said cans," Butthead said appreciatively, beady eyes fixated on the "chick's" ample breasts, the tops of which were strategically peeking out the top of her v-neck sweater.
"Well, they are pretty nice cans," Beavis agreed. They chuckled their way through the attractive woman's speech about the appliance, right up until an equally handsome gentleman walked onto the screen and stood next to her.
"Thanks, Susan," he complimented, Vaseline-d teeth gleaming; he, too, seemed to be glancing at his partner's chest, albeit not quite so obviously as Beavis or Butthead.
"This guy's a nutsack," Butthead grunted as the man launched into a speech about a blender. "Like, we don't want to hear him talk; we just want to look at that chick's hooters."
"Heh, yeah," Beavis agreed. They sat in silence for a while longer, Butthead scowling at the man. "Hey, Butthead," his cohort piped up suddenly. "If the chick has hooters, what does the guy have?"
Butthead looked at him incredulously. "What are you talking about, assmunch?"
"Like, if the chick has boobs, and the guy doesn't, then what do chicks like about dudes?"
Obviously, this was a new concept for Butthead; and never being a terribly scholarly member of society, he reacted not with thoughtfulness, but ridicule. "Dumb ass," he scoffed. "Chicks have hooters, and dudes have . . . um, they have -"
"A weiner?" Beavis chimed in.
"Huh, you said 'weiner'," Butthead snorted. "Yeah, dudes have a weiner."
"So like, how do you know if it's, like, an attractive weiner, or something?" Beavis continued. "I mean, how big does it have to be and stuff?"
Butthead was frustrated. "Why do you care, dillweed? It's not like you're ever gonna score," he replied.
"Yeah," Beavis agreed, looking equally annoyed. He wasn't about to leave the conversation alone without a solid answer. "So like, um, would you say that guy on TV has a really big schlong?"
"Huh, you said 'schlong'."
"Heh, I'm serious, Butthead," Beavis pleaded. "Do you think that guy scores a lot?"
"A lot more than you, ass-wipe," Butthead snapped. "Now, shut up and watch the chick - dude, where'd she go?!" The gentleman was the only person on-screen, now. "Dude, this sucks, let's change the channel so we can see some hot chicks."
"Heh, I don't know, Butthead," Beavis appraised. "I mean, this guy's pretty hot." His partner was very silent. "Hey, Butthead?" he queried yet again.
"What?"
"Do dudes, like, ever make out with other dudes? Do they touch each other's packages and stuff?"
"That's really nasty, dude," Butthead replied, shakily. "Look, since you're a dillweed, I'll spell it out for you: dudes score with chicks. They like chicks' hooters. Chicks touch dudes' packages. That's it, okay?"
"Um, okay," Beavis replied, quietly. "Hey, Butthead?"
"What?!"
"Do we have anymore nachos?"
"Heh, nachos."