To immediately pick up where I left off in my previous post, self-production, through the act of sexual intercourse, would seem to be the only form of productivity worthy of our collective and mutual efforts. As I’m wont to do, I’ll break it down to the core in layman’s terms:
An adult person, man or woman, wakes up in the morning, goes to work to make money to pay the bills. This person will work hard in order to make more money on the side in the hopes of pursuing greater pleasure from life. And how does this person go about this pursuit? The person seeks extravagant vacations; or perhaps he or she is just as thrilled spending every red cent painting the town red; maybe it’s contributing time and that extra money to community service or to their churches. The end result is the same. There are those of you out there who won’t see the correllation, but have patience. I’m going to try to explain.
On a subconscious level, my favorite level, everything we partake of, every ounce of energy spent – let’s say 87.5% of the time – we’re all working towards the same goal: we’re looking to get laid. We work hard for nice things because nice things make us feel good, and nice things impress potential mates. Impressed potential mates are known for removing their underwear under such conditions. Sure, I know there are many other factors involved. I’m here just like you are. I work. I play. I seek. I know the rules as well as you do, but the rules only interest me when I’m working, playing, or seeking. Right now, I’m talking to you!
So why are we endlessly seeking sweaty gyrations with someone who smells nice and is impressed with our collection of nice things? Self-production. Cloning. Children! Yes, I’m well aware that a boatload of you out there are not interested in ever having children…on a conscious level. But you brainiacs are only half as smart as you think yourselves to be. If you were to take out all the science involved in not having children, you’d be no less hornier after a time, and sooner than later, your own little Suri would be pushed from you or your lover’s womb. Nine out of ten times, instinct would take over, and you’d raise that child to be someone. And you’d hope that child would never commit your silly blunders, and for some time, you would be successful. Then one day before your very own eyes, Baby Suri is now no longer a baby. She’s 16, fully blossomed, fully hormonal, and looking for a Tom of her own. Suri would have most of the taboos you’ve tried your best to instill in her, as would Tom the teen. But as is more likely than not, both Sweet Sixteen Suri, and Tom the Teen, will have their own counter-culture ideals to follow, whichever kinds of ideals one would find in the year 2024 or so.
The cycle begins anew. You and I, (the dad and mom), will secretly shed tears, knowing what was involved when Suri our grown daughter and Tom the accountant produced our beautiful granddaughter Francis Bean Latifah. It is only because we’re here to reproduce ourselves that we’re blinded by the chemical reactions that would help us forget the visceral images and grotesquenessisms of Suri and Tom bumping uglies.
You’re all smart enough to know this and long before you ever read this post, yet still this coming Friday or Saturday, or both, I’m going to see you all out there. Those of you who don’t make it out this coming weekend, will surely make it out the next. I’ll see you out there. I’ll be among you. Just like you, I’ll ignore the dangers found in this post because anything beats being idle, especially on a Friday night.
Working for the love of work, or saving to play, or helping out in the church – all that leads to Nothing, because it isn’t sincere. Who am I to tell you such? I’m the man behind the mask. In the words of James Hetfield, The RZA, and countless others:
In the third and final installment of this series, I will necessarily touch upon the exceptions to the rule. Every rule has them. In this case: homosexuality, pedophilia, old people already married for years, participants of abortion, and guys who lost their nuts in Vietnam.