Men are stupid. Seriously. It’s just an undeniable fact of life. Don’t think that my gender of sociology class is warping my mind (it’s a GE; I didn’t have a choice)—women are obviously all batshit crazy and often stupider, but my point still stands.
We beat the shit out of each other for no particular reason and take pride when we black out and wake up in an alley next to a homeless man with a knife wound and a cat licking said homeless man’s vomit off of us and, worse, some of us like baseball.
Nonetheless, I have some hope that we can be greater and achieve more. You see, it’s no fault of ours that we’re like this. As backwards as it sounds, genetics and evolution have left us this way. The bottom line is that we’re designed to spread our seed, so that’s pretty much all we do.
Everyone’s heard that men spend 90% of the time thinking about sex, and most men wouldn’t even waste their time pretending to disagree. Even when you’re not mentally undressing your hot TA during section (or sexion, as the not-so-clever but unrealistically well-endowed porn actor playing you in your head calls it), pretty much everything you do is an effort to get ass.
I'm a genius in a bottle, gotta crack me the right way.
If you’re turning down a BJ from that slutty chick with the lazy eye who lives down the hall to study (bad decision), it’s only because somewhere in the deep recesses of your brain you’ve reasoned that if you do well in your classes and indenture yourself to the man, you can make enough money to marry a much more attractive gold-digging whore who will cater to the fantasies you have that even the Germans think are fucked up. Granted, she’ll cheat on you with pretty much anyone who can afford to buy her dinner, but you’re not smart enough to figure that out.
Anyway, I digress. You’re naturally wired to try to have some illegitimate kids whose child support payments you’ll dodge so that your genes aren’t wiped off the face of the earth forever. The result is that you’re wasting so much brainpower trying to locate a warm, moist hole for your Johnson that you fail to achieve anything close to your true potential.
“But wait,” you say, “according to your logic, eunuchs should be smart enough to be on their way to taking over the world!”
Fortunately, eunuchs spend all the extra brainpower they aren’t using trying to figure out how to spread their seed on other things, like singing in boys’ choirs and attempting to will their testicles back into existence.
Luckily, however, I believe there is a space of time in which a man uses the entirety of his brain—the result is that he can cure cancer, solve the great questions of the universe, and probably perform some kind of telekinesis. Problem is, it only lasts a matter of seconds (and no, I’m not talking about whippits). Allow me to elaborate in pseudo-scientific, completely baseless terms. There is a singular moment when you can take full advantage of your entire mental capacity: the few seconds immediately after orgasm.
In those few seconds, the male has no desire for sexual intercourse. He may crave a sandwich or a massage, but because the sperm has already been deposited, for those few moments he feels no need to land his load in a willing (or otherwise) girl’s vagina (or face, or chest, or back, or ear).
“Well that sounds good in theory, but I’ve busted a few nuts in my life and never noticed any difference!”
First of all, shut the fuck up already, this is my article. Second of all, think about what you’ve spent those precious few post-ejaculation moments doing: nudging your semen down the shower drain with your big toe, loathing yourself for fucking the wildebeest next to you, or apologizing profusely while your partner tries to mask her obvious disappointment.
Comedy Articles
"Bowling for Lawyers"
"Kyle," she said, looking at my nametag. She studied my face closely. "Kyle?"
"Hi, Myrna," I said, glancing at her nametag. The beautiful thing about nametags is: perfect information. Complete transparency.
"Did I meet you this afternoon?" she said, looking over her clipboard skeptically.
"I think so," I said, making a guess. "Between the afternoon sessions."
"I just don't remember you as Kyle." She glared at me angrily.
"You've met a lot of people today," I said reassuringly. "Sometimes they all blend together."
"Right," she said, giving me the hairy eyeball as she walked away.
I surveyed the scene. I was inside an upscale Boston bowling alley, Kings, where a number of my co-workers had decided to have a little after-work party. Now, you will pay more for a game at Kings than you will for a scrotum transplant. It's ridiculously expensive, for a game that's meant to be played by professional refrigerator repairmen.
We had arrived without a reservation, only to find that Kings was completely booked until 8:00 pm with a "private party." No problem there, except that every lane was completely empty. The private party was nowhere in sight, though there was $1,000 in cocktail mushrooms and finger weenies waiting for them to arrive.
I tried negotiating with the bowling shoe guy, explaining that we'd be happy to pay for a lane, and gladly forfeit our game when the party arrived. Sometimes I am able to obtain at least a round of free appetizers with these methods, but tonight I was out of luck. We were stuck in the bar until 8:00 pm.
While everyone ordered drinks, I moseyed over to the private party, where they had foolishly put out nametags for everyone who would be attending. There were nearly 100 nametags up for grabs, so I calmly palmed the first one I saw. Surveying the huge trays of appetizers and munchies, I affixed my new identity to my shirt: KYLE.
After I had dealt with Myrna, I turned to the young man on my right. "How you doing?" I asked, extending my hand. "Kyle." It was strange to use a fake name, like wearing someone else's thong.
"Michael," he said, shaking my hand.
"How long you been here?" I asked, having no idea where "here" was, or what the hell kind of role I was supposed to be playing.
"Just a few weeks, actually," he said. This was good. He was new, needed a friend. I would be that friend. "I just came from the Toronto office."
"Canadian, eh?" I asked, which is the kind of stupid joke that you would make at one of these events. I eyed the platter of finger pizzas hungrily.
"Actually, I'm originally from Boston," he said. "Got stuck in Toronto for a few years. Patent law." So this was some sort of law convention. More people were filling the bowling alley now, as I looked around and realized I was completely underdressed for this thing. Only lawyers would wear Brooks Brothers to go bowling.
"How's litigation in the U.S. versus Canada?" I asked, wishing desperately for the waitress to come over so I could scam a free drink.
"It's a lot different," he said, brightening up. Now we were friends. "There's actually a lot more red tape in Canada..."
Two guys suddenly appeared, both in their early 30's, both much more well-dressed than me. But then again, they were here for a law convention, I was just a guy off the street trying to scam a free pita pocket.
"How you guys doing?" asked the one on the left, whose nametag read BRIAN.
"Good," said Michael, shaking their hands. "Michael."
"Hi, Brian," I said, giving him a friendly handshake and smile. "Kyle."
The one on the right, the one without the nametag, was staring at me angrily. "I'M KYLE," he said.
For a second, I feared that Real Kyle might kick Fake Kyle's ass, then I remembered he was an attorney, and everyone knows that attorneys are pussies. (Too afraid of getting sued.)
"Where are you from?" asked Brian, challenging me. As if I wasn't already WEARING KYLE'S NAMETAG, WITH HIS LAST NAME.
"Toronto office," I said, the first thing that came to mind. Actually, the first thing that came to mind was to flee, but Toronto was close second.
"No, I'M from the Toronto office," said Michael, slowly realizing he had been talking to a fraud.
I looked down at my nametag. In large black letters, above the name KYLE, it read, SAN DIEGO.
"I mean, San Diego," I said confidently.
"What's your position there?" Brian asked.
"Attorney," I said.
"What kind of attorney?" I was being cross-examined in a bowling alley.
I paused, but only briefly. "A lawyer attorney," I said.
Just beyond Brian was a large platter of hummus, which I would not be sampling tonight. Just beyond the hummus was a large security guard, an African-American linebacker wearing a suit and an earpiece (hey, that's my costume). He was talking with Myrna, who was pointing in my direction.
"You know, Kyle," I said, offering him a smile, "I think this is yours." I took off the nametag and stuck it on his chest. "Enjoy the game."
With Real Kyle and his colleagues shooting daggers in my back, I walked over to my co-workers. "I think I'd better go," I said, as the security guard approached me.
"Sir, I have been told that you are crashing this party," said the security detail, who was Paul Bunyan in a suit.
"You crashed the party?" asked my co-workers. This was cool. Now it was a night out. "Did he steal the food?" someone asked the security guard.
"Yes," the security guard lied, "yes, he stole the food."
"I couldn't steal food from lawyers," I said as the security guard escorted me to the door. "I wouldn't want them to go hungry."
He politely ushered me out the front door (no threats, no violence), and I reflected that I had probably done a good thing. Michael and Kyle had a story to tell all their boring lawyer colleagues, my co-workers had a funny anecdote to tide them over until a lane opened up, and I was able to make the early train home.
And just for the record: I didn't steal any food. Kyle did.
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