I like to joke that I have woken up on a strange planet that is essentially an analogue of my home planet and one that even goes by the same name, Earth, where the inhabitants are apparently homo sapiens, but of a somewhat less intelligent subspecies. Homo sapiens doofoidus, perhaps. I have spent most of my life playing down my own supposed intelligence in order to gain some very limited social acceptance, which is why I say things like “I figger” and ain’t, and curse at a level rivaling that of the entire trucking industry combined. An earnest member of MENSA once interviewed me for some purpose that was never explained to me, and in passing mentioned that I might consider applying for membership of that august organization. I was so very honored that I exclaimed, “You have got to be fucking shitting me!”… And he said that yes, yes, in fact he was and oh my, look at the time, I must be getting along to my next appointment and thank you so much for dropping by.
Somehow or other, here on this otherwise passable analogue of my home planet, it is remarkable that it snows in Colorado in the month of May. I am not at all surprised that it’s presented as such by the mass media, as even on my home planet the mass media is designed for those whose most coherent thoughts are indistinguishable from pink noise — somewhat more coherent than white noise but still meaningless. People who religiously watch The Simpsons on television but only get about a third of the subtextual humor, and, it seems, incorporate into web browsers spelling checkers that are unaware of the word subtextual. Still, an otherwise passable analogue of my home planet. Right up to about the point that apparently literate individuals who are blog authors find snow, in May, in Colorado, remarkable. You have got to be fucking shitting me.
In and of itself, though, that’s just a minor thing. Chuckle and move on. Nuthin’ to it. Ain’t no big thang.
This morning, seeking evidence that might tend to confirm or deny my suspicion that I’m on the wrong planet, I thought I’d look in again on the mass media. Admittedly weak proof is all that could be obtained there, but I’m afraid to go out in public to interact with Homo sapiens doofoidus. What do I see in the headlines? What’s the big thang? Circumcision Complications Are Very Rare, Study Finds.
I’m not really for or against the practice, but I find it an interesting one. At some point in the history of our culture, some religious leaders decided that god had put way too much skin on dicks and rather than fix it himself he wanted them to go around hacking the offensive meat off of the penises of newborns. Why newborns? Because full grown men would stomp the shit out of them for daring to suggest the thing to them. Wait a minute? What? You want to cut off a chunk of my dick? You have got to be fucking shitting me!
In and of itself, the hacking of infant genitalia is not so remarkable. Maybe it should be, but we don’t question tradition. Cue the Fiddler On The Roof music. (To the tune of If I Were A Rich Man: “If I were a Christian, I would go to church on Sunday and pray to a Jewish boy…”) TRADITION! Friends, infants, newborn sons! Lend us your foreskins! And somehow or other in those long gone ignorant ages, parents all over said to the holy men, “Yes, if it pleases god, it will please us for you to hack off hunks of our son’s dicks”. Why? I have no idea. To secure their passage into heaven, I guess. Or maybe for the more utilitarian purpose of making luggage. Yes, friends, it looks like a wallet now, but just watch what happens when I gently rub it: A suitcase!
Maybe it was an ill-fated attempt to reduce young men’s compulsive obsession with the hygiene of the region. Dammit boy, it’s clean enough! Stop washing!
So, okay, some earnest researchers in the 21st century figgered they could score some easy research grant money by going around to hospitals looking in on the tinky winkies. I get that. Goofier things have landed big research grants. But it’s a headline? You have got to be…
… spending a little too much time thinking about penises. Idiots. They aren’t for thinking about. They’re for thinking with.