Has Science Gone Too Far?
July 14, 2016, 8 a.m.
Few topics are as more uncomfortable as talking to your children about than sex. And while the topic seems
I, for example, wish I had known how obvious it was that I was masturbating in the shower at 13.1 Because now that I'm an adult, nothing is clearer or more horrifying than realizing my 30-minute, "me time" power-showers were actually a spotlight for my parents as to my actual activities.
Even worse, now that I'm an adult, I'm starting to notice the same painfully obvious behaviors in the newer generations of teenagers. I call it a "Sick Sense". Personally, I don't want it, but my attempts ignore the signs have proven my new burdensome insight to be unbreakable. The only silver lining is that unlike the actual movie, The Sixth Sense, after which I have named this cumbersome "gift", I have not had to see a proverbial Bruce Willis psychologist only to find out he was a masturbating teenager the whole movie.2
As resisting this "gift" has proven futile, I've decided to quantify my observations using the scientific method in the hopes that the results may help some parents better rear their teenage sons. Drawing on years of data from my past, I was able to come up with the following formula:
P = The percent probability that your son is crankin' it
K = The Confidence Index - The number of years older than twelve that your son is
t = Disappearance Time - The number of minutes the boy has been missing from public view
h = The number of people besides him that are in the house
Now, anytime your 16-year-old son (K = 4) disappears from the presence of you and your daughter (h = 2) for seven minutes (t = 7) and you hear the shower or, god forbid, the vacuum cleaner, you can do some simple mental math to calculate that there is a 40% chance that those cleaning sounds have a hideous origin.
Now that we have done a sample calculation, let's take a moment to analyze this formula and understand where it comes from. More importantly, let's see what it means to you.
What Does it Mean?
1. t : Disappearance Time
Notice that the formula scales linearly with how long he has been out of public view. Which means if he's been gone 3 minutes, then at the 6 minute mark, it is twice as likely that he's poundin' it. The astute reader may notice how this works the opposite way of Schrödinger's Cat in that the longer you don't observe your son, the more certain you are that he's masturbating.3
2. K : The Confidence Index
Notice that the older he gets, the probability of his masturbation goes up linearly as well. This accounts for his confidence as he ages. Teenagers become increasingly certain of their superior intellect and cunning with age, so they'll start masturbating in riskier places which helps spike the probability.
I would like to point out that the number of times he's been caught does not factor into the equation or diminish his confidence. Masturbation has a way of deleting those instances from our heads. The brain sometimes does that with traumatic experiences.4 However, when you catch him masturbating, the public view clock jumps to 0, meaning he is definitely done masturbating. That is until you close the door, which instantly restarts the clock. Knowing him, you're intrusion probably didn't phase him much. Hell, you may have upped the thrill.
3. h : Number of Others in the House
Finally, notice that the probability that your teen is maturating is inversely proportional to the number of other people that are in the house. If you really want to sexually frustrate your teenage boy, have a pool party with plenty of girls in skimpy bathing suits. It will increase the pressure while simultaneously decreasing the probability that he is able to relieve it. That'll teach him for eating the last Oreo.
You may be wondering, what happens if no one else is home. Didn't your teacher tell you never to divide by zero? Well if you're a physicist, you would just say that means there is an infinite chance that he's pullin' it. For example, if he gets home from school before you and your significant other are done with work, then not even the next 9/11 would stop him from slammin' his salmon.
However, if you're a mathematician, you know that the real value is indeterminate. And if you've ever been a teenage boy, you know exactly what that means. For those of you out of this loop, let me clue you in: if you've ever left you son home alone, your house is now a level 5 biohazard. He's cumming inside your furniture, he's definitely masturbated in your bed, and you should probably put Rex to sleep do to PTSD. He has tried to put it in a light socket, he has rubbed it on the front door handle, and he has more rug burns from in between the cushions of the couch than he has ever gotten from the actual rug.
And that's the best case scenario: if he's only 13 and been home 7 seconds. But if you've ever left your 19 year old son home alone for several hours, then you should sell your house before anyone finds out how much it's actually worth now. Because your house prices are going to plummet faster than if they opened a methadone clinic within a mile radius of it. If you knew what had occurred inside of that house, you would burn it quicker than if you discovered that your walls were being used as a brothel for spiders.
I promise I'm not trying to be vulgar, only trying to make amends. I've done such damage to one house before. I just hope my parents get decent money for it if they ever decide to move out.
I was once talking to a person at a cookout who mentioned to me that talking to young children about masturbation will help them understand their body and have a positive sexual body image. The only conversation more horrifying than telling your children it's okay to masturbate is a conversation with a stranger at a cookout about doing exactly that, especially considering he didn't have any children. I dipped pretty quick after that.
Unless you're willing to lay that personal trauma on yourself and your emotionally developing teenage child, there are currently no solutions to the problem of erratic teenage masturbation. Some parents try to tell their kids that Jesus is always watching in an effort to artificially keep the Disappearance Time at 0, but all this does is lay down an extra layer of trauma. When they inevitably slip up and rub the chub, they will do so under the impression that a grown 33-year-old man is watching them. This is not something you want your child getting used to, especially in a Catholic Church setting.
Honestly, I don't see why modern helicopter parents think this is something they need to tackle. Stoic silence between parent and child about sex has been working for hundreds of years with moderate success, there's no need to go rocking the boat.
I'm one particular success story of this method! Yes, maybe porn dictated what I thought normal sex was supposed to be, but at least I never had to sit awkwardly in a room with my parents talking about touching myself. And besides, I was into feet before porn, so I doubt I went too far off mark.
I think that if we talk too much about sex to our kids, we'll be robbing them of nostalgic, exploratory memories from their first sexual experiences. Like the time they first realize the hole is way lower than they thought it was, so they overcompensate by going way too low on the second attempt and then have to wait a half hour for her to stop crying. What kind of parent would I one day be if I deprived my children from experiencing those kinds of
mistakes unexpected learning opportunities? Not all lessons can be taught, some have to be experienced.
Developing a Female Formula
Fortunately for teenage girls, there is currently no accurate formula for estimating masturbatory habits. There is an equation on the books, but it is a non-linear partial differential equation (PDE) for which there is presently no solution. But fear not, non-linear PDEs are a hot topic of study in academia at this very moment, and it's hard to believe that solving this problem is not at the core of that research.
While a quantitative approach is currently untenable, plenty of research has gone into why the female equation is so much harder to solve than the male formula, which is a plug and chug type problem. There are several popular theories that I will briefly go over here.
1. Difference in Masturbatory Cognition
Girls actually devote brain function into whether they should trip the switch. Unlike the primitive male sexual impulses, females factor in subtle things like timing, mood, comfort, wind-chill, the Coriolis Effect, and whether or not their father can can hear them through a canvas tent on the family camping trip.5 Boys don't have any such reservation, making them more predictable than clock-work.
2. Location, Location, Location
For guys, location is everything, and nothing. At its best, it adds thrill to the event. At its worst, its just another place to feel shame, which is not a deterrent in any respect. Every guy you've ever met has that one location that he is ashamed of but, at the same time, would not hesitate to defile again.6
Women, on the other hand, tend to have something called self-respect (I hope I spelled that right). Location is a complicated decision in and of itself. In terms of PDEs, these are called boundary conditions, and they are what emulsify PDEs into the world of geometry. Complicated shit. Hopefully you see why even the world's smartest mathematicians are having trouble with it.
3. Social Pressure and Double Standards
Its no secret that women have to live by a different standard than men when it comes to sexuality. Regrettably, this standard extends far beyond the inherent differences between the sexes into the realm of sexism. I, for one, think its wrong that society projects sexuality onto the act of breastfeeding so that women feeding their kids risk shame or even job loss, while at the same time, I've been caught masturbating at two different jobs and wasn't fired from either one.7
These social stressors and double standards have different effects on different women. Many feel they have to live up to some impossible standard of beauty that they could never achieve. They feel trapped in the body they have just because they weren't born with the right bone structure, or they don't have the right shape of hips, or they don't think their lips are full enough. And it's sad, because they don't realize that every woman is beautiful and deserving of love, and if they don't have a guy that sees how beautiful they actually are, then they deserves a real man who does.
It takes no leap of the imagination to see how this can put unfair pressure on women, even for the ones who are actually beautiful.
Leveraging this Information
Science lends us the insights to make our lives better by bolstering modern medicine, producing technology, and generally making our lives better. So naturally, it would follow, shouldn't there be some ways to leverage the formula above for improved parenting and general entertainment?
Indeed there are such ways. Below I have gathered a handful these techniques for spicing up your life by ruining his:
At times when the formula says he's most likely going at it, you can:
- Turn off the router in your house.
- Blast Barbara Streisand music from your home stereo.
- Ask from down stairs what he wants for dinner.
For more general tips for forcing more entertainment into the situation:
- Make off handed comments about the spike in water usage last month.
- Have a series of family movie nights, viewing films with graphic sex scenes (Boogie Nights, Eyes Wide Shut, Showgirls, Team America -- bonus points if it's a gay sex scene and your son is straight).
- Sleep with his best guy friend (bonus points if you're his father).
This is clearly not an exhaustive list, but just a little something to get you started. I'll go ahead and put one in the win column for science.
And cutting my pubes with the good scissors, but that's a story for another time. ↩
For those of you keeping track at home, I just worked the titles to all the good M. Night Shyamalan movies into that paragraph. You're welcome. (Also, spoiler alert.) ↩
This is not the best comparison, however, because the time evolution of a quantum state is exponential, to wit, e^(-i*φ(t)), while in this case (thankfully!) it is only linear. ↩
I am guessing here; I've never been caught masturbating. Wait.....or....have I? ↩
I know for a fact that your dads can hear you because I can hear you from the next campsite over. Seriously kids, it can wait. Camping exists for four key reasons: socially acceptable public urination, playing with knives, doing drugs, and lighting fires. The reason materbating is not on that list is because nothing, nothing, makes more noise than the nylon-polyester blend they use to make sleeping bags with. You are camping. Put it away and go play with a hatchet, the way nature intended. ↩
Mine was a porta-potty at a fair. A county fair. For those of you who know why that makes it worse, please don't share with the others. ↩
Granted, some people don't see Uber and Lyft as "real" jobs. ↩
Beating Your Meat Cravings
July 7, 2016, 8 a.m.
I think being a vegetarian is inherently uncool. The same is not so for meat eaters. If you eat a 72 oz. steak in one sitting, you'll probably get your meal for free and they'll put your name on a plaque in the steakhouse. Then you can brag to friends until the end of time about how big a steak you ate. Hell, it's probably smart to put it on your resume. A vegetarian doesn't have the same freedom. After your epic steak story, he can't then retort, "I know how you feel man, I just slammed my second plate of potato salad. And after I pick the bacon bits out of this Mac and Cheese, there's no stopping me!" If you're a vegetarian who does this, take it from me: nobody give a fuck how many cherry tomatoes there were in the water chestnut salad you had last night. I should know, I've been a vegetarian for almost five years. I've seen the disappointed looks on countless people's faces when I try to add my lack luster "biggest ear of corn you've ever seen" story into the mix.
But for those of you who are thinking about giving up meat, I don't want you to think it's all bad. There are plenty of positives that go along with taking a sizable step down in all of your social circles. For one, your fiber intake will likely go through the roof. Most new vegetarians are not ready for this sudden spike in fiber and would be well advised to keep a few adult diapers on hand and avoid bicycles for at least the first two weeks. Eventually, you'll notice that you don't have standard "bowel movements" anymore, but rather, if you want to eliminate, all you have to do is unclench the death grip that is your sphincter since you started this new diet. Be sure to practice sleep clenching several weeks in advance to avoid being unprepared on night one.
Despite these benefits, I feel obligated to mention the inevitable negatives of vegetarianism. Unfortunately, if cookouts were a fond hobby of yours, those days are over. There are plenty of products out there for vegetarians in denial: veggie dogs, veggie burgers, and tofurkey bacon.
Don't go down this road. Tofurkey bacon indicates the desperate circumstances to which some vegetarians have stooped to pretend to be a part of cookouts. I have a rule of not eating food that is in the middle of an identity crisis. It's tofu pretending to be turkey pretending to be pork. To put that in perspective, Caitlyn Jenner would need an additional sex change operation to equal the number of transformations of this "food." Tofurkey bacon might have gotten a pass if it tasted decent, however, it ranks pretty far down on the list of abominable things a human can eat, coming in right below human flesh. If that last comparison offends you, try feeding tofurkey bacon to your dog. Not only will he not eat it after smelling it, he'll lick his asshole to get the flavor out of his sinuses. Remember that this is an animal that will lick peanut butter off your balls; the fact that this same animal will not eat tofurkey bacon is as good evidence as any that you should stear clear, too.
Missing out on cookouts is not the worst part of the deal, though. Far worse is that the majority of your friends will start to call you gay. Frankly, I never understood why my friends would call me a faggot for not eating meat. They've clearly never seen themselves eat a bratwurst. Watching a grown man eat a bratwurst is the most homo-erotic act known to man. For those of you who don't know what a bratwurst is, it's a meat filled condom1 often grilled or boiled at sporting events where posturing men cram as many of them as they can down their throats to show how masculine they are. As it's a sporting event, there is also plenty of ass slapping afoot. Most gay porn is tamer than watching a bro in a football jersey slobber over one of these knobs saying the gayest things you've ever heard like "I love when their fat and juicy like this" and "oops, got some on my chin."
I had the good fortune of going to the Gay Pride Parade in San Francisco right after gay marriage was legalized last year. Little did I know, there are plenty of street vendors selling these phallic meats and even more unfortunate people looking to buy them. I caught a glimpse a straight guy deep throating one of those bad boys on a street corner and I had to turn back and look at the parade, which was a far less intense homosexual experience. Worse yet, I could have sworn I heard a gay man wearing nothing but a G-string and glitter mutter "faggot" under his breath as he danced his way up Market Street.
The two most prominent reasons for people not eating meat are for their health and for their moral convictions. Though I used to be down for both reasons, my attitude toward eating meat has changed in the last few years. Let's inspect each of these major reasons in detail.
When becoming a vegetarian, I thought pounds of fat would just drop out of my ass like a tranquilized bear out of a tree. I didn't take into account the fact that cheese pizza, soda, and french fries are vegetarian. What it really takes is a change in lifestyle, not just diet. Spoiler Alert: fuck that. The closest thing that resembled regular workouts for me was watching old Jane Fonda workout videos online. For research for this joke, I promise.
You can be unhealthy eating any type of diet. I have vegan "friends" (in the Facebook sense, I swear) who manage to be fat.
There is no sadder creature roaming this planet than the fat vegan. Judging pound for pound, if I saw a starving African child next to a fat vegan, I would take the $1 I was heroically giving to the Red Cross at the supermarket and put it in that poor, fat bastard's gastric bypass fund. A fat vegan is like a virgin2 with herpes. It takes talent to trainwreck that hard. If you ever do catch a glimpse of one of these warlocks in the wild, getting a picture will net you a hefty sum of money; they're more rare than the Lock Ness monster or a good U2 song.
I originally stopped eating meat partially for moral reasons. Now, I just don't eat meat because I haven't eaten meat for a long time. Maybe it's only me, but I find most of my moral convictions have become much more lethargic in nature. I used to not kill people because it was "wrong." Now the best reason I can think of is because carrying a corpse to the fire place is hard work. My morality on vegetarianism has, likewise, gotten a little muddle since I started.
Eventually, I just found being preachy about not eating meat to be too self indulgent and short sighted. Much in the same way that a human rights blogger is. Yeah, your "posts," "likes," and "retweets" of human rights violations are uncomprehendingly revolutionary, but the computer you're using to bring this astoundingly proactive justice about was made by a person who has such slave-like working conditions that they try to kill themselves by jumping out of the sixth floor of their hybrid "factory/living quarters." Ironically, this is the same computer you use to view and masturbate to Asian pornography. I call that the Circle of Life.
Being into the "moral" reasons for vegetarianism are uncannily similar. Similar to the hypocritical blogger, that is, not the Asian porn. Well, maybe both cases involve you jerking yourself off, but that's not my point. For a vegetarian, your food still comes from somewhere, and for the same reason we use nefarious Chinese labor to make electronics cheap, apples don't cost a buck fifty a pound without some serious human rights violations mixed in. Seriously, read that last link. It will make you think twice before you eat a banana. And not because of the similarities to bratwurst.
So how do we continue to live lives that are inherently built on the backs of others while at the same time dealing with mounting social pressure to pretend that we care? I donate a dollar or two to fight world hunger every other time I go to the supermarket. I've also 'liked' a few starving black children on Facebook. As for the rest of you who are not quite so morally cleansed, this is a complicated question, the solution of which each of us has to find for ourselves. In times of moral disparity, I, personally, find that Asian porn takes some of the edge off. I hope that doesn't count as cultural appropriation, or I'll have to donate an extra dollar at the supermarket this week.
Well, that got cynical in jiffy!
I don't want you to think I'm too cynical though, I'm not. To prove this, I've included a picture of my puppy.
His name is Dobby. He spends most of his time licking his dick and balls in lieu of eating the tofurkey bacon I put in his dish (ungrateful son of an actual bitch). And you know what? That's probably better than what I spent my week doing.
Now if you'll excuse me, my three bean salad is ready. It has 16 cherry tomatoes.
Fun fact, in the early days, instead of using a premium latex condom as a sausage casing, they would use the rectum of the animal used for the sausage. I can't help but feeling empathy for those poor animals. You can't get any more dominated than being shoved up your own ass. ↩
And I mean a real virgin, not the "butthole doesn't count" type of virgin; that's more of a vegetarian type of virgin. ↩
June 30, 2016, 8 a.m.
Beach season is well under way, much to the disappointment of ladies everywhere on the beaches I frequent. Luckily for those poor ladies, last year a young girl stared at me while asking her mother how a boy could have breasts.
This year I am determined to be more than a jumping off point for parents to talk to their children about the concept of being transgender. That and the fact that I am quickly approaching my last year of physical prime and the best I have to show for it is budding breasts and a contempt for having to pick things up off the ground. The only benefit of my current state is that if I am ever witnessed committing a crime, the witness will have a hell of a time explaining my amorphous blob shape to the authorities as it has no notable distinguishing characteristics like, say, muscles.
So as of late I have endeavored to convert my body into something much more refined. I've started trying a series of different exercises so that I can pick the right one for me. The following is a documentation of this experiment thus far.
My first and last attempt at running lasted five, excruciating minutes. To even call it a run is to pushing the limit of the word. I was under the impression that I wasn't in too unreasonable health until this slovenly attempt at cardiovascular activity alerted me to the fact that I have the respiratory system of a eighty year old chain smokers who spent a long career in asbestos removal.
To add insult to injury, a concerned seventy year old woman stopped her run to see if I was alright. I wasn't. So she offered me a ride of shame back to my house, which I graciously accepted. She jogged off and pulled back onto the street fifteen minutes later in her 1995 Buick Lesabre, a car that is almost as old as me.
Nothing could quite prepare me for the thorough look of contempt this woman gave me when, three blocks later, I pointed to indicated we had reached my house already. I was embarrassed enough to thank her for helping return this poor "asthma ridden" young man back to his house to get his inhaler. She accepted my thanks, gruffly, and I'm pretty sure she called me a "lying cunt" under her breath as she drove off.
Next time I'll remember to take an ambulance.
If you ever amass any belly fat in your life, you're done with situps. Just give up. I optimistically decided to try situps again having not done a situp in a few years. If this doesn't kill you, consider yourself in the lucky few because for the past several years, the only workout that your stomach muscles have gotten has come from resisting the expansion of your fat stomach as you cram down a second helping of chili. Your abs are not ready for the compression stroke, I assure you.
Situps will certainly go down in history as the most disappointing workout ever because each situp tests your motivation. Not just because they start getting difficult, but because the up stroke of each one perfectly draws your stomach and tit fat right into your gasping face. Each time the fat is waiting there to taunts you, as if to say, "Hello again you fat piece of shit!" This is made even more realistic because your nipples and bellybutton form a disappointed, scrunched-up face. Which is the worst example of pareidolia for the record.
I didn't really stay and do yoga. Only after I showed up for my first lesson did I realize that yoga pants were more of "girls only" type of attire. They did make my ass look great though. Yoga pants are like real time photoshop for your ass.
Arm strength is an important attribute to have. Or so I'm told by my friends who have it. And there is no better way to develop arm strength without embarrassing yourself in front of a gym full of strangers than by doing pushups at home. That's not completely true, I was plenty embarrassed when I had to start off building minimum strength by doing the panzy pushups off my knees. I accidentally caught a glimpse of myself in a full length mirror in my room and promptly broke up with my girlfriend. I realized that I couldn't date anyone with low enough standards to date me. How was I supposed to respect her if she didn't respect herself?
I never did progress past two standard pushups. It wasn't completely my fault. I fell out of practice one weekend when the USA Network decided to do a full series marathon of Monk. I'm only human.
My only solace is that if I'm ever holding someone's hand as they dangle from a cliff, I now have the strength to hold them long enough to apologize about their inevitable fall.
Swimming classes are a great way to get into shape and learn a new skill at the same time. That is why it is crucially important to avoid a lifetime ban from your local public swimming pool.
During my first/last lesson, to assess our level of skill, the instructor timed how long we could tread water. I did better than I ever could have expected, coming second only to the panicked kid I latched onto after experiencing cramps fifteen seconds in. We treaded for almost fifteen minutes together, and he was in there another five while they found the right apparatus to fish him out.
My friend is a nature photographer who suggested I hike to lose weight, which was weird because I didn't remember telling him about my weight loss goals. He indicated that being out in nature made exercising a more joyful experience.
We don't talk anymore. In fact, I hope he's dead. Hills are StairMasters that you can't turn off.
7. Rock Climbing
What in the preceding paragraphs would even remotely hint that I would have any ability to try this? Any self respecting, intelligent reader should have seen the section title here and laughed while moving on to the conclusion. Shame on you for reading to the end.
A wise professor once told me that the only true failure comes when you have learned nothing from the outcome of your trials. Though I have let myself down at every turn in the endeavor of finding an exercise regime I like, I am determined not to fail. So I've decided to chalk this one up to a learning experience and put one in the win column. Because, ultimately, I have made an important stride in getting the body I want. The real challenge is going to be socially integrating yoga pants as an acceptable form of male swim wear.
The Penis Mightier than the Sword
June 23, 2016, 8 a.m.
I'be been strapped for cash lately, so I decided to do some house sitting for an elderly woman on my block. She thanked me graciously for working on such short notice and informed me that she left instructions on the kitchen table. According to the list, she had cats that required special diets, some routine chores she needed dealing with, and a gate that needed to be unlocked for her gardener every week. The only reason that I remember what the note contained was because it took me three hours to decode her arthritic cursive. By the time I was finished translating this quarter page that looked like she had written it under German fire in 1944, I could't help but wish a swift death upon this sweet old woman.
That may seem callous, but we all think something along these lines at some point in life. Like when you turn 20 and go to another state to see your grandparents for the first time since you were a kid and your grandfather uses the N-word four times in a two minute conversation about the weather. Of course you love your pap-pap, but the world will be a much better place once he's dead. Not a slow drawn out death or anything cruel like that. Just a quick stroke that will put him out of the voting booth.
You must understand that cursive is my racism. I love everybody I know who uses it, but when they're dead, I will feel as though a great evil has been purged from this earth.
I'm not even exactly sure how cursive became a socially acceptable way to communicate. Cursive is written like a drunk person speaks: unintelligible and slurred. The next time you read cursive, imagine the writer was shitfaced, trying to write in print. It makes wedding invitations a blast. And, I finally understand why my doctor feels comfortable writing my prescriptions without an office visit. To be fair, I expect Vicodin will be over-the-counter any day now.
I was forced to learn cursive in third grade. I didn't take a computer literacy class until high school and I was never taught a programming language in grade school. That is absolutely backwards. I would tell you the ratio of the times I've used a computer to the times I've used cursive as an adult, but unfortunately, my math teachers always told me never to divide by 0.
Maybe it's time to refocus our education a little. Last I checked, Software and Information Technology was a diverse, multi-billion dollar industry. Meanwhile, the only job I can think that requires cursive is being a tattoo artist that scribbles corny, inspirational quotes on the under side of white girls' tits.1 And given the fact that these quotes usually do not extend beyond high school's definition of "deep", comic sans would have done just fine.
And if computer classes don't suit you, let's replace the curriculum with a foreign language. Americans are so pretentious that in lieu of teaching their students a new language, they reteach them a slanty version of the first one. Learning Spanish would have opened up a channel of communication between me and nearly half of a billion other human beings on this planet, but in place of that, I can spell my name without lifting my pen. What a time to be alive.
Cursive has simply outlived its usefulness. It was designed to help people write faster. But for every second you gain from writing that Parkinson's spasm you call a "note", I have to spend at least ten times that attempting to decrypt it. And because everyones' cursive looks wildly different, each encounter is like stumbling onto a lost language. When I come over to take care of your cats, I don't want to be playing Russian Roulette trying to give the medicated food to the correct one. It's a good thing that cats have nine lives or I would have never gotten that forty dollars.
The only other thing we use cursive for is to sign documents as a way to verify our identity. I'll eat my hat if anyone has had their identity verified on the spot by a signature. I usually sign so fast that I'm not forming letters, and in fact, adding several letters that earn't even in my name. If I killed a prostitute in a hotel room and signed for room service, I would still have a two day head start on the police while they contacted the San Francisco Chronicle about a new Zodiac Killer.
Moreover, signing a document in modern times has become altogether too easy. A signature used to mean something when it was first invented. Hundreds of years ago, you could't just sign a document with a quill. You had to have forty pounds worth of brass equipment with you so that you could melt wax, ladle some onto the document, and then ever so lightly press the wax with a stamp containing your family crest of your grandfather shooting a Native American in the face. It took at least twenty minutes to sign anything, during which time you could properly assess the magnitude of what you were signing. Now, you can agree to decades worth of credit card debt with nothing but a pen and a wrist seizure.
We need to redesign the signature into something that takes enough time to perform while at the same time giving you the clarity of mind to make smart financial decisions. Luckily, we live in an age where it is faster to sequence someone's DNA than execute an accurate signature analysis. And while I guess saliva would work, I would like, instead, to present...
The Case for Semen
One of the greatest failings of modern society is the apprehension of the average person in talking about semen. I hope that the following points of argument will not just expel these seminal reservations, but thrust them into the limelight as well.
Why should we use semen as a genetic identifier instead of a cursive signature?
1. The more purchases you make, the harder it becomes to spend.
If you're anything like me, you sometimes have trouble with spending money on things you don't need. This method of signing for payment will rapidly curb your spending urges. It will make you more sensitive to your budgeting limits, saving you hundreds every year on overdraft fees.
It also encourages financial prudance among your family members. You son or daughter will have to weigh how much they want that new toy versus whether or not they want to eat out that day once they realize that daddy only has one good purchase in him every 10 hours.
2. You get to view the purchase in your most sound state of mind.
There is never a time in my life when my mind is more clear than the first five minutes after an orgasm. All men know what I'm talking about; it's that feeling of judgment you get in your stomach when you see what the animal-half of your brain defines as appropriate genres of pornography. You can redirect this self-judgment to your purchases. As you ladle your signature toward the dotted line, you might suddenly decide that maybe a life-sized cardboard cutout of Gary Busey is too creepy for your daughter's bedroom.
3. You can stimulate yourself and the economy at the same time.
Finally, you don't have to hang your head in shame anymore. Every transaction you make helps swell the economy and create jobs. And if that isn't what Republicans wanted, I don't know what is.
4. We can reuse all the brass equipment.
That's recycling, which will get the Democrats on board, too. We're gonna need that bipartisan support if we want to get those pesky Indecent Exposure Laws modified.
5. Fraudulent activity is a thing of the past.
Every couple of months my bank sends me a new debit card because a store where I used it had their servers hacked. They just sent me a card with a security chip in it, but only a handful of places even have a reader. Enough is enough, people. I envision a future where fraudulent card activity is impossible. When the Seven-Eleven clerk smashes your soggy receipt tape into the DNA machine, he'll be able to verify your identity in a way that cursive could only wet dream of.
For the ladies
Unfortunately due to the combination of a limited sex education in the U.S.2 and a far too exclusive club of women who have let me look at their parts, I only have a surface level familiarity with the female genitalia. As such, I am limited in my ability to recommend an equivalent DNA verification technique for women; however, I am also aware that women need to be able to make purchases. So, I don't know, spit on it or something.
I guess what I'm really trying to get at here is that I hate cursive. I hate it enough to legalize public masturbation in order to get rid of its last vestiges in society. Don't confuse this with a passive hatred either, like I hate people who say the word "hashtag" out loud when referencing something; but a real, focused hatred like the type I usually reserve for unsupervised children. The difference being that while children are certainly part of the future of humanity, there is no reason that this illegible clusterfuck of antiquated penmanship has to be.
Soaking Up the Chipotle Controversy
June 16, 2016, 8 a.m.
When the news first came out about the outbreak of a foodbourne illness at a Chipotle restaurant late in 2015, I was as devastated as the hordes of other Chipotle addicts across the country. I heard the news on the radio on my way home from work and in a panic, I immeadiately sought solace in my favorite comfort food: Chipotle.
The decision seems so near-sighted when I look back. Nearly one hundred people had gotten sick, which when averaged out of 330 million Americans, yeilds an incaclulatable risk.
Was I tempting fate? Absolutely. Was I as brave as a decorated war veteran? Those justifiable comparisons are for you to make.
However, one thing is for certain: it's gonna take a whole hell of a lot more than several days of diarrhea and vomiting to keep me from cramming a delicious burrito down my throat on a weekly basis. Besides, if you read that list, half of the Norovirus 'symptoms' are the result of eating an uncontaminated Chipotle burrito. What's an extra few 'symptoms' when your staring down the barrel of a double steak behemoth? We've all been there.
So, much like the masses, I have decided to boycott the Chipotle boycott. If for no other reason, I'll do it because trying new things is hard. Though I'm still in my mid-twenties, I'm already starting to feel that disatisfaction with life that leads older generations to hate new music and become Republicans. It took me three weeks to properly pronounce 'Chipotle' when the chain first came to Sacramento. I can't go back to eating at local taquerias whose names are completely in Spanish.
It's also a matter of location. I live in California. And for the life of me, if we have a thriving Mexican culture here, I have yet to find it in my suburb. Chipotle helps bridge that gap and allows the average Californian to experience an authentic Mexican meal. Cultural appropriation aside, I think that ought to count for something.
The preceding reasons, though, pale in comparison to my main reason for returning to Chipotle every single time without fail:
My Life Runs on Chipotle Napkins
You know why I don't steal fists worth of McDonald's napkins? They're in a dispenser. And when you pull napkins out of a dispenser for later use, they become crumpled like a handful of used jerk-off tissues. My friends already think I have a problem, I don't need them diving out of the passenger door of my moving car in horror when gobs of wadded up napkins explode unexpetedly out of my glove compartment like a joke can of peanuts. I can't afford another rise in my insurance premiums.
Chipotle avoids this embarassing scene by stacking their napkins in glorious piles for the taking. Honestly, if they didn't want you to take four or five handfuls every visit, they wouldn't stack these crisp beauties so delecately. The neat stacks of Chipotle napkins that I inevitably embezzle from this fine establishment fit prefectly into glove compartments, center consoles, and the cupboards of my house. And it's all guilt free stealing, too. Their napkins are made with unbleached, recycled paper, so the more you take, the better it is for the environment. That's just math.
But tread carefully. Once you've accepted the altruism that is building a house of cards out of napkins, you need to find creative ways to use these bad boys. Using them exclusively as tissues or for cleaning spills in your car is for amateurs who can't measure the number of Chipotle napkins they have in pounds. If you're not careful, all those napkins can really start to stack up (pun unavoidable). Luckily, there is a painfully obvious solution: stop buying any form of paper products. You wouldn't believe how much money the average American wastes on writing pads and paper towels. I actually have trouble holding back laughter in the supermaket when I see people buying toilet paper. Like, with money.
Eventually, you'll realize that paper isn't the limit. These amazing bastards are the greatest panacea since penicillin. You can use them to dress wounds and pull teeth. You're only limited by your imagination. Five Chipotle napkins and two yards of duct tape make a dandy tampon (vary the number of napkins depending on flow). Hell, even half of those Norovirus symptoms can be mitigated with a cleverly placed fistful of napkins.
Unfortunately, due to the outbreak, Chipotle has had to launch a campaign to pick up the pieces. I've been in a panic for weeks trying to predict the consequences of having to refactor basic toiletries back into my budget. I pray that if Chipotle ever does file for bankruptcy, they have the common decency of letting me file joint with them.
Thankfully, an idea occurred to me while I was on the toilet, philosophizing whilst staring off into one of the many stacks of napkins that make up my potty fort. As I grabbed a napkin off the top of one of the piles and focused on its elegantly stamped label, I thought, "any business model that can come this full circle in servicing its customers can't possible go out of business." And for the first time since the outbreak, my stomach was at ease.