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Sunday, May 26, 2024

Column: Bananasnutsmuffins

I suppose it was only a matter of time until I jumped the shark and decided to write about the meaning of life. After all, the apocalypse is fast approaching, so it’s time to bring out the big guns. My friend once told me she knew, but she was high and said to ask her the next day. She didn’t remember shit the next day. I guess I wasn’t meant to find out that night.

Today, I too will be withholding the meaning of life from you. Writing about genitalia will probably elicit more smiles anyhow and I owe rainbows of smiles before next week’s thunderstorm of sobs. If you still want to know what I think the meaning of life is, e-mail me. Or just have a heart-to-heart with me at G St. Pub. I might just share all my existentialist bullshit with you. It’s pretty good bullshit.

I don’t know what deity you’re all about (maybe Ronnie Van Zant or Eywa). Whomever this deity may be, probably smoked a bowl, took countless shots of Everclear, chased it with all the drugs in Duke and Dr. Gonzo’s trunk, and then sat down to invent the funkiest possible parts of anatomy that immediately came to mind. I know this is immature and asking for aesthetically-pleasing junk is kind of ridiculous, but … well, I have no excuses. And I really like the word junk. Maybe junk is the real reason spandex is so popular.

I’m inclined to think that most folks talk about that party zone down south more than they’d care to admit. I don’t like admitting to such talk, for it would make me seem like a trollop, and I’m the classiest of broads (classy broads can snore and outbelch boys).

But think about it. Genitalia are often the first kids bullied when it comes to throwing out an insult. It’s like getting hollered at by a dude in a huge pickup truck at a stoplight and responding the way any girl naturally would: “Nice truck, sorry about your dick.” Or when your friend has a birthday and you tell him that it’s only a matter of time until he gets some serious ball wrinkles. Or saying that vaginas smell like dead fish. See? Prime target.

Back to aesthetics. Not even Georgia O’Keeffe could make vaginas look all that great. As my friend said, pretty bluntly, “Vaginas look like roast beef.” I have yet to savor a roast beef sandwich since, but it’s only been two days. Another friend added that sex with girls feels like putting your dick into a slab of raw meat, but in all fairness, he eventually decided that he doesn’t like sex with girls after all. I won’t get to test that theory in this lifetime.

“A lot of guys complain that girls don’t pay enough attention to the balls,” said a known affiliate of mine, Dakota Dewey. “Boys, have you seen them? I’m serious. Have you? They’re gross.” I myself have wondered why balls can’t be an internal organ, but it turns out if they were, sperm would overheat to the point of uselessness and the human race would die out. I hate how everything seems to trace back to the death of the human race.

There’s a weird underlying curiosity about what lies beneath, even though it’s something you’d never want to ask your grandma. I remember my friend asking me freshman year if I’d ever seen a live penis. Well, I’d certainly never seen a dead one. The same friend also went up to a guy at a Halloween party and asked if he was “snipped.” In her defense, it’s a very unique icebreaker and she didn’t get clocked in the face. But I’ve heard a lot of chicks rag on the Unsnipped. I don’t think I’d trade places with an Unsnipped fella. They seem to have it almost as bad as the poor souls who run the Jack in the Box drive-through on Saturday nights.

I guess maybe Homo sapiens don’t have it as bad as some other species. I was in a pensive kind of mood recently and briefly pondered how ducks have sex. Naturally, I asked around about this until someone linked me to a video that answered my question somewhat. Let me tell you, duck penises are totally WTF. They look like snake tongues. Yeah. Really.

Props to human beings for using their hormones to overcome any weird hang-ups they may have about this “sex” business. And for distilling big kid drinks to foster aforementioned overcoming. Shag on, kids.

MICHELLE RICK hopes you find her at Shasta on the boat blasting the Superman theme music. Throw your questions re: mysteries of the universe at marick@ucdavis.edu and catch her next Thursday. There will be fireworks and mini-quiches.


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