For most people, every waking moment is spent doing one of two things: eating; or engaging in, thinking about, posturing towards, or wishfully preparing for sex or sex-related happenings. After all, our biology is programmed to do almost nothing else—and if we are doing something else, it’s likely just to facilitate more of that. It feels good, though, so who cares, right? Wrong.
Let’s get some facts straight: this weird, gross squishing of the nethers floods our minds with ancient subatomic alchemies and blood-borne nuclear contrails, all circulating in an effort to make us forget how weird and gross it is. Biologically practical, sure… but what about when you’re trying to fill out some TPS reports and BLAMMO, #itsbonertime? You can’t get anything done with a boner. Did John F. Kennedy have a boner when he gave his famous “Not what your country can do…” speech? I think not.
Nevermind, bad example.
Anyway. Here’s another fact for you: We’d be 100,000 years more technologically advanced right now if the invention of the wheel hadn’t been driven solely by the desire to roll off to foreign lands and rub against their people. Can you imagine if this grand liquid trick of nature had instead been a genetic cluster of thoughtful ambition? We’d be out riding immortal space whales over the moons of Omicron Persei 8 by now, time traveling through the ether with jetpacks and moving stuff with our %$#@! minds. Flying cars? Check. A single-payer health insurance system? Check. Journalistic integrity? Even. On. Fox.
Instead, we get rubber as*es (which, okay, those are cool), a $4 billion adult video industry, and Donald Trump. Remember those cool kids who used to have sex all the time in high school, but later were revealed to be total losers? No, not in reality… I mean the movies. Aha! Exactly. So the next time you’re giving it the ol’ heave-ho, break those chains. Think about your children, and your children’s children… Think about the future they will inherit.
And if that doesn’t work, think about poop, babies, and someone’s dead grandmother. That’ll do the trick.
By Johnny Beaver