When I’m God, I’m going to do something pretty damn radical about the means of human reproduction on this planet.
It’s a must. And it hit me as I was talking to some people about sex the other day – as you do now and then.
I mentioned in passing that they’d probably each had more of it in the last month than I have in my life when one of them piped up – ‘But you have a kid’.
As if – the more you have it away – the more you breed.
Hmmm, I thought. There’s a good idea.
Maybe pregnancy should be cumulative?
Now, the more I think about this, the more I like it.
In fact – if any evidence were ever needed that either Richard Dawkins or Depeche Mode are right, it’s all right here.
And in yet another scintillating fact, if it isn’t, I’m going to bury the idea in a Blue bloody Peter time capsule so he can dig it up with his intergalactic virtual metal detector with folding leopard print minibar handy 12v AC/DC converter and three-in-one conditioner in 2112.
I say ‘He’, because I’m assuming if the race is going to advance, we’ll at some point stop bickering over who’s called what, what complete idiot is showing any lack of respect to any other insufferable retard, and generally ditch feminism, totalitarianism, communism, corporatism, Muslim Fundamentalism and general ‘we are a race of titstick limpets grown legs’ -ism in favour of modern civilisation.
So: here we are on day one of the new dawn and we’re drawing up the rules. Number one on the agenda – happiness.
Prudence wants mass castration. Borgia wants free love. But I automatically win with my plan for cumulative pregnancy.
No more Elvis conceptions.
No more wrangling over who’s the Daddy.
No more welcome to Vicky Pollard Hell.
From now on – you play by the great liberator’s rules. And my rules are;
1. Men get pregnant
2. They only get pregnant once they’ve had sex on more than 1,000 occasions.
3. Everything else stays the same
Think of it.
For a head start, in one foul swoop, you’ve eradicated the single mother state .
Once that head start’s assured, you’re all set for a convincing lead, as it becomes clear you’ve completely levelled the sexual playing field.
Because let’s be honest – it needs levelling.
I mean – guys are ugly. They smell bad. They lose hair and teeth. And no matter how much brighter and better they are than a woman despite it all – they’d rather die than let it show.
Because they know. They know they’ve got to lay on the sort of show Barnum and Bailey would balk at just to meet a basic human need and they know that wittering, inane idiot in the knee-length Nazi boots and with the third sector name badge and hire-purchase friendly salary and mortgage is the one they’re forced to play to.
Girls though – girls are pretty. They smell nice. They keep their hair and teeth and the whole damn thing and no matter how much dumber, or generally worse they are than a man despite it all – it’ll never matter how much it shows.
Because they too know. They know they’ve only got to walk into the nearest bar to meet a basic human need that posing, pontificating desperado in the feminazi issue crew cut with the £1,000 a month pay cheque and the bedsit and the alimony payments has to leap at any chance to get.
This is why – sorry to break it to you fellers – all girls at all times get around and have fun all over the place while guys – yep, guys in general, even those mythical Alpha Males we all hear about – just don’t.
The genetic sexual chips are all stacked in one direction because only one sex produces the next generation.
That’s why genetics gave guys consecutive thought. So they could fight back.
But hey – change Nature – no more grief! Ever!
No more blokes struggling all their lives to earn stupid money to impress women into doing something that’s the most fun you can have without laughing anyway only to be rewarded with shit health care no human rights and a greedy old soul-less hag breathing all over you as you die of Cancer first.
Nope – game’s over.
Girls: you want a kid – you better make damn sure either you and your lover go at it like a social worker and her favourite dildo for the next year or three – or get some rest and let him out to stud.
I mean – the more I think about it – the more it’s perfect.
No more lone, stressed angry men eye-balling you over spilled drinks at parties.
They’re all too busy having group sex with each other’s maternity-starved wives upstairs.
I mean – they were going to beat you up out of misplaced anger because of that hat/suit/face you’re wearing – but, sadly, their wives (or one of them anyway) took them to one side before the dodgy Spanish wine was even half-chilled.
Jane: ‘Let’s face it love – you’re 37 already – unless you have sex with me, my younger sister and the rest of the MILF Rovers Netball all-stars right now and every night all night for the next six months, I may never get to have a child of my own!”
Dick: “Oh all-right”
And come to think of it – what about that ‘child of my own’ anyway? Surely – child of ours?
Child Welfare concerns? Call a Government official? Forget about it! That’s your kid in there – go sort old Vicky out yourself!.
And no nagging and bitching about the terrible awful day you had when you get home to your exhausted, sated, carefree partner when you get home either.
After all – he’s the one having the baby.