|
Masturbate or Master Race
People
are breeding like rabbits here in Mayberry. You can't turn around or even
get comfortable in your personal space without bopping a pregnant belly.
Over half of the staff at work (if half was 8 out of 24… math is hard) is
impregnated with a growing thing. The conversation used to revolve around
beer, boys and bongs and now it's saturated with babies, blankets and bibs.
Maybe math isn't hard. Beer + Boys + Bongs = Babies. Now as I brush my
hands off proudly after deducing that hyperbola, I'm on with the article.
I've
decided that there has to be an epidemic. You simply cannot take 24
people, four of whom are males (science isn't hard… men can't have babies),
and have 8 pregnant at nearly the same time. Either the government is
involved or else I missed out on a fantastic orgy. You know… those kinds
with the disco lights and the techno beat in the background? Ecstasy being
passed around with glow sticks and hands and legs all ajumble? Somewhere a
camera is rolling, but you don't care because…
Some
of you are snickering at the idea of me at an orgy and I need to ask you to
stop it. It's not very polite and I'm sure I could find a dark secret here
or there to make you blush. Maybe. Oh shut up.
But
away from the Roman bath house scene and back to my government theory. I
think they must be putting something in the water, and therefore I've
stopped drinking it. So what if my skin doesn't have a healthy glow about
it? So what if my hair gets straw-like and icksome? If the government
plans on breeding waitresses consider me out. I don't care if I foil their
future plans to have a nuclear-safe bunker and are one waitress short. I'm
all about the anarchy when it comes to getting knocked up for the CIA. I'm
all about keeping my trousers on when the gub'ment wants me birthin' their
conspiracy babies.
Maybe
they like our stamina, our perseverance. Maybe they're breeding us to
insure that the future is thick with people who can multi-task under
pressure and who are used to limited finances. Let's face it, should a
nuclear war break out and only a few survive, money would be scarce. That
being the case, would you rather share the planet with a frugal waitress or
a Wall Street Day Trader? Remember, we bus tables and Bissell the cracker
crumbs you left after eating your soup hurriedly. In a dusty, ashen world,
we'd be helpful. Those Day Traders would be too busy jonesing for cell
phone coverage to care if you were knee deep in the remains of civilisation.
Now I
realise I've turned this article into a political speech and steered it away
from safe sex. I had planned on it to be a plea to tip your wait staff a
condom and the usual 15%, but now I see I've ranted enough to make it sound
like a waitress should be your next president. I guess this is what happens
when you work nine days in a row and have to listen to the sounds of morning
sickness echoing from the bathrooms. |
