August 2nd, 2005

Dance For Mazzie

Confidential to my readers

I worry about my sperm sometimes. Not the way one would worry about real children, I don't concern myself with whether they've eaten their vegetables or done their homework or anything. With a lifespan of 14 days I say smoke em if you got em live each day like there will be no tomorrow, because there probably won't be a tomorrow. If you're one of my sperm your tomorrow is likely a fast trip into a wad of tissue paper.

I also don't worry about my sperm like a medical professional might worry about sperm. That they're not motile enough, or that their tails are curved, or whatever. That when it comes time to impregnate a woman and create a new life my little guys won't be up to the task. On the contrary. Most of the time I worry that my sperm may be too powerful.

Now, before you start laughing, please hear me out. I know sperm are simple little single-cell structures that consist of not much more than a head full of DNA and a tail for the swimming. I know that they are incredibly stupid non-creatures, automatons with only one purpose. I know that billions of them are created in my testicles and that the vast majority of them will die without accomplishing a damned thing.

But what of those who won't?

I am a very smart individual, some might even say brilliant. We know that intelligence is in part a genetic trait. I think we can say, then, with some certainty, that I have some fucking genius sperm. I am also a strong man, and I assume that my sperm are equally muscular. This combination of brilliance and strength makes them dangerous. Very dangerous. I look at a condom, a little thin sheath of rubber, and I think "How can this pathetic thing possibly hope to hold my sperm? They will tear through it like Malaysian pirates bushwhacking in the jungle. Is latex a match for my sperm? Durex says it is. Logic says it is not. My sperm are not to be trifled with.

And there are billions of them. Billions and billions. One of these days one of them is going to figure out how to transcend his spermy fate, and then there'll be trouble. Like what if after I flush one of the tissues down my toilet some of the sperm figure out how to live off the nutrients in the sewage system? What if one of them discovers that he is strong enough to swim against the current of the flush and manages to go up the pipes of various toilets? Couldn't he swim up into a toilet bowl, wait for a woman to sit down to pee, and then leap up and impregnate her? What's stopping him? It's so easy. Can we really trust that none of my genius sperm will figure this out?

Or, god forbid, what if one of them gets his hands (metaphorical hands) on some plutonium? Who would be safe then? The short answer is nobody. He'd call the media and start making demands for fertile women to surrender their ovums to him. Would I be held responsible for the cost of harvesting the eggs? What would he do with them? He could only fertilize one, but what if he distributed others to his buddies and they created a race of nuclear armed super babies? What then? My friends we cannot allow this to happen.

There are only two possible solutions to this vexing problem. One is castration. The other is that I get the sperm while they're still young and undeveloped. Thus in order to save the world and retain my testicles I must make sure to orgasm numerous times a day and make sure that my sperms are flushed before they are mature of mind and body. This is the only way that we can keep them from taking control of the world.

Or destroying it.

Wish me luck.
A hairy situation

All the kings horses and all the kings men

My girlfriend dumped me today.

Again.

It's beginning to be something of a habit with us. Anytime I do something that upsets her, like buying the wrong necklace (how am I supposed to know that shrunken heads are out this season?) or 'sleeping' with the cute newspaper stand girl (excuse me, Jennifer, but despite the numerous refractory periods there was certainly no SLEEPING going on, okay?) or coming to bed in full S.S. regalia (and I thought you were kinky) she kicks me to the curb.

Fifteen minutes later we've made up. It's starting to become a predictable fact of life, like shifting weather patterns or Republican dissembling.

And so I have been thinking about the nature of the break-up. The break-up is an interesting animal because it is both pessimistic and optimistic at the same time. The pessimism comes from the fact that this relationship, upon which hopes and dreams of long-lasting companionship and mind blowing sex were pinned and, can go no further. The dream has died and for a time life feels like a broken-winged bird that cannot fly.

The optimistic side of things is what fuels most breakups and can be expressed more simply. "Eh. I can do better." Indeed many of the times Jenny has dumped me, only to allow me to come crawling back mere minutes later, it has been for just that reason. One time we were out for a walk and she thought she saw Alfred Molina (who is, apparently, smoking hot). She quickly told me that we weren't right for one another because I was too controlling and at the same time not nearly controlling enough and broke off in hot pursuit, only to make a U-turn and return to me when she saw it was in fact an entirely different Molina. Possibly Bengie. Another time we were about to watch a movie and she just wanted to be able to fantasize about being free in case Ron Perlman called. I wept into the popcorn for about half an hour, causing her to complain that it was "a little too salty."

The truth is, even excluding Alfred and Ron she probably could do better. It's actually pretty hard to do worse than an obese unemployed hack writer with a receding hairline. I'm the kind of guy girls date so they can tell their daughters horror stories in the future and tell them to never date anyone even vaguely similar. "Stick to bankers or professional wrestlers. The former will always have money for dinner or a show and the latter will always pull out your chair for you, even if only to whack the waiter in the head with it."

Breakups come in all shapes sizes and durations, but they always hurt at some level. Unlike the optimistic breaker upper the broken up with person always feels like he was inadequate, and often he doesn't know why. One day you're praised for adding a few pinches of strong cheese to your breakfast of scrambled eggs, the next it's dumpsville when you do the same to the pancakes. And you're left with the same thought virtually every time. "I can't believe she left me. How can I get even?" And you can't. Because even if you become rich and famous and marry a supermodel she can still shrug her shoulders at the mention of your name and say "Oh that guy? Yeah, I dumped him."

Now some of you may be asking why I put up with this kind of treatment from my girlfriend. Why don't I get someone who really wants to be with me? Bypassing the easy answers ("I can't" and/or "The sex") I'll say it's because when someone dumps you and comes back it can sometimes strengthen the relationship. She's had a taste of freedom, sampled life without you, and found it lacking. As the old saying goes "If you love somebody set them free. If they come back to you they're yours to keep. If they don't, they never were." Bumps are part of any relationship, and sometimes boundaries need to be tested in order to be defined. I believe that overcoming these early difficulties and strains will only make us stronger and that some day she won't feel the need to run from me anymore. Then, after she knows I'm the one she wants and that our togetherness is the best thing not just for her but for both of us, I'll be able to get my revenge.

It will be sweet.