Genitals: the traitor in your pants
Friday, May 14, 2004
I'd like to say a word about genitals. But first, I'd like to say the word "genitals". Genitals. Genitals, genitals, genitals. It's one of those intrinsically funny words, like "pants" or "weasel" or "Schenectady".

But let's get all sense of jocularity out of our systems right away, because truly there is nothing funny about human genitals.

First of all, they're ugly. No matter what color you are, they're a totally different shade from the rest of you. An angrier shade. They look chapped and painful. And they're covered in their own special kind of skin. It's not a nice sort of skin, either it's a wrinkly, nasty sort of skin. You wouldn't buy a puppy covered in that stuff, would you? Of course not. You could never let it on the couch!

And they're responsive. They do things when you poke them, with or without your consent. Or they don't do things, likewise whether you like it or not. Or they just do things, all by themselves. They're autonomous, headstrong, self-governing creatures, attached to your body. It's like having to share with an ugly little alien, and one that doesn't have your best interests at heart. Do you realize your genitals are more sympatico with other people's genitals than they are with you?

We wouldn't be quite so ugly
if we had kept our pelts
And the placement! Whose bright idea was it to put them there? Maybe it made sense we went about on all fours to locate our most delicate parts at the crossroads of the hindlegs, where they could run free, but we do that upright bipedal thing now, people, and that's where all the action is. Depending on your brand of genitals, they're either stuck right out front, flapping around getting pinched or bumped or zipped into things, or they're so tucked away it's all but impossible to perform routine maintenance, including that ferocious scrubbing they so often require.

They have their own special diseases. Oh sure, all organs are subject to their own diseases, but the unique job description of our fiddly bits makes their diseases both unusually painful and unusually embarrassing. So painful and embarrassing, in fact, that some people will let them waste clean away before they'll seek medical attention. Doctor: "My goodness! I've never seen one of these on one of those! Does it hurt when I do this?" Yes, doctor, of course it damn well does.

Oh, yes, you in the back there. I hear you snickering. We're all supposed to be ever so sophisticated and enlightened and comfortable with our genitals these days. Find them beautiful. Make friends with them. Take them around to meet people. But let me point out that the people promoting this idea are, broadly, the very same people who won't let us hate venomous snakes and spiders any more, because they're all beautiful in their own way. See the pattern?

Well. At least we'll get relief eventually. Once they reach maturity, genitals age very quickly. In dog years, pretty much. Some day, Princess or Buddy whatever you like to call your parts will pass away peacefully in his or her sleep. Just drift away and not come when you call one morning. It's the kindest thing, really.

You'll still have to wear it around, of course, but it won't nag you to go for walks or play frisbee all the time and maybe you can have a nap or a pee or read a goddamned newspaper in peace every once in a while, eh?


2004. Anyone who would make off with this box of shite deserves everything he gets.