Illegitimate Test Tube Babies

Part 28 of 30

Self-Abuse September

When thinking of the issues of procreation -- related to the god particle -- versus the dismissive act of self-abuse -- a little messier but more easily forgotten -- you occasionally need to keep in mind what you want for your life. Because the consequences of bringing new life into the world can be dire, including family vacations, photo albums, school and having to spring for lunch tickets, plus the constant whining, crying, whimpering, and bitching that you’ll find yourself doing.

Fortunately, I’ve kept these issues in mind all my life, ever since my cousins clearly laid them out for me, and I made sure I kept them in mind every Sadie Hawkins Day when girls had the right to propose to boys. I was always conveniently sick that day. And now that I’m old I’m reaping the benefits, being all alone, not a soul in the world caring for me, with most of the girls who potentially could’ve nailed me now living in nursing homes, tripping over IV tubes and spontaneously combusting. Any one of them would've been a massive financial drag on me. But life has been good. I wouldn’t trade it for anything, not even the biggest test tube baby in the world!

And I had my shot, too. There’s all kinds of things most people don’t know about me. Because I'm so used to being completely alone of course that means I'm fairly good at bridling my tongue. You think I blab a lot on this blog? That's nothing compared to the stuff I could tell. But I’ve crossed my heart and hoped to die so many times with every evil scientist you can think of, so I’ve kept relatively quiet.

But that also means I’m stoved up in many ways that to tell it all now would take us far beyond our current theme. Did you know even evil scientists occasionally die and can only be brought back a limited number of times? True. But the last time you bring them back they look at your blankly and you see a kind of sparking -- fitz, zipz, pitz -- their legs stiffen and for a few seconds it seems like they’re pedaling a bike, there’s a fresh stain on their pants, then they die. And all the artificial pulling and yanking you might do never brings them back.

The creation (or creature) in the jar is actually an artist’s rendering of an actual test tube or jar baby one of these scientists made. I used to have the research but used it over the years to clean fish on. So, dammit, it’s gone; the fish were really biting that year. But this guy had some way of combining human seed with you-name-it, exposing it to lightning and intense pressure, and always coming out with something. Which got confusing, like mixing the crotch of a near relative with a sleepy cow; he got the sex of a cousin and half dozen of the udders, which is two more than good nature allows.

The downside of creating any living creature -- whether a standard rugrat with a woman or a test tube baby in a storm -- is always the same. The expense and explaining it to your wife. And also registering the monstrosity! Our nosy government always wants to know where things came from and who they are. But if you stick to standard self-abuse, it’s no muss, no fuss. The government merely assumes you were celibate and if you weren’t they can’t prove it without untidy and expensive mucking about in your sewage complex.

Test Tube Sample: It's Alive!

 Part 24 of 30

Self-Abuse September

I feel kind of nostalgic (and even a little amused) when I see this high brow scientist discovering once and for all how lively life is. I had something of a head start on at least intuiting that, because from an early age I used to swim in stagnant ponds. And my Grandma was entirely right to be aghast at that and warn us against it (me, brothers, cousins). But we did it anyway. And whether it was by immunity built up from years of dirty living or some other scientific explanation -- bacteria failing to get a foothold because of our sheer cussedness -- I yet live to tell.

Another reason for my apparent survival -- I have another theory that on your deathbed you relive in apparent real time everything in your life -- could be, you name it, trying to purge my karma, to teach me the true meaning of Christmas, or get me laid not in claim but in fact. Well, my karma’s so huge that a million yogis couldn’t atone for it, I know Christmas is a scam, and I may not be afraid of living breathing pond scum but getting laid would expose me to herpes, gonorrhea, and the flu, depending on whether she had the shot.

I feel I definitely have to stay on the same course I’ve been on. A persistently romantic personality, a deep attraction to myself, and self-abuse up the yin-yang, or the imaginary semblance of the same, maybe just yin one day and yang the next. Someone says, “How they hangin'?” Same way as always, of course looser on a scorching hot day. Are you keeping up with me? Are you down with all this? To thyself be true, OK, I shall.

Then there’s the unpleasant aliveness of it all. Which isn’t just my own personal aversion, but clearly that of the scientist and all thinking people. Forget the chicken and the egg, we have the mystery right here in our hot little hand. That’s gross, yes, I know. But the fact is, we’re never alone. We’re surrounded by life, occupied by life, in addition to ourselves being alive. It’s like we're the host, a host to a trillion colonists, giving us every right to be completely freaked out as long as we live. Then, even then, somehow, a trillion bacteria get in your coffin and-- I can’t bring myself to describe what scientists know. There are millions of micro-organisms always with the person, and each one has to eat. Google it.

Lunch break, thanks for reading this far.

OK, I’m back. A dead pig sandwich and some lightly browning lettuce, and an ordinary glass of embalming fluid, so I’m good for a couple years. In conclusion, look to the science of it all. Self-abuse is vastly preferable because you’re not manufacturing other human beings that will have to one day die.

Louis Pasteur -- The Enemy of Kids

Today I am speaking up for all the kids in the world -- past and present -- who hate milk, and who are therefore sorry Louis Pasteur was ever born. I myself wouldn't go that far. I refuse to believe our lives are set in advance, and so I believe Pasteur could have actually done something useful with his life. The fact that he became the one to work out a way to "pasteurize" milk, thereby drastically reducing bacteria and making it safe to drink, is unfortunate, but still not enough for me to rue his existence.

I know how kids feel, though, and so I won't say much more, not wanting them to turn against me and feel sorry that I myself was ever born. As you know, kids have always been mean little bastards -- even fighting among themselves! -- and are not known to appreciate the nuance of any argument. Either you're for them or against them, and they easily see through any facade, any kind of kissing up or trying to pull the wool over their eyes. In this case, however, I said what I said, and I hope that they will somehow, by some miracle, be able to understand my benign intent. Pasteur was evil, yes, but his life had the potential for good.

The weird irony in this whole matter, as I understand it, is that Pasteur as a kid himself wasn't a milk-drinker. I'm more or less pulling this from thin air, but think about it... If the milk wasn't pasteurized and therefore rife with bacteria, it stands to reason that his parents wouldn't have wanted him drinking it. Of course they knew he was Louis Pasteur, but because he hadn't as yet made any stirrings toward discovering his process, they are forgiven for not knowing he ever would. We're very forgiving because they were blissfully ignorant the entire time.

And "pasteurization" might not even have applied to milk! When I was young I heard it bandied about that all Pasteur wanted was to become famous for something. He wanted the word "pasteurization" to mean something, to be descriptive of some process, any process that he might come up with. For that reason, he was often at his drawing board.

One of his interests was magic; he wanted to become a famous magician, doing all the usual feats: card tricks, levitation, escapes, and invisibility. He thought his invisibility process in particular might be called "pasteurization." He worked out a great process by which he could vanish. But since he could only get his body to disappear, his head remained and appeared to float around town for weeks after performances, an embarrassing failure.

Back to the drawing board, he developed a system for communicating with aliens in space. This is true. And this was also something he was going to call "pasteurization." But this was a terrible failure as well, because aliens love milk. See where this is going? Millions of aliens came to earth, drank our bacteria-ridden milk and died. Hence the world suffered Intergalactic War I, II, and III, and we almost strapped Pasteur to a rocket and shot him into space, á la Jonah. The upside of these disastrous wars, in addition to corporate profits, was Pasteur's pursuit of a way to purify milk ... and redeem himself.

This, then, is how he was finally able to use the word "pasteurization" in at least a semi-productive way. But everything comes with a downside -- milk wasn't restricted to aliens -- and so we're back where we began: Louis Pasteur became the sworn enemy of children everywhere, making their lives a miserable experience, a living hell, by having to drink milk.

It's still true: Milk is for aliens and babies, not big kids.

Uncle Hoist and Aunt Eedee

Yesterday, I posted my '80s college psychology work, the Ladder and Scaffold of Self Images, which, just to answer a few who quickly wrote in, is indeed something I came up with myself. I did not copy it from the works of Freud or Jung. And to the guy who loudly proclaimed he saw it in a psychology textbook, that's true; I licensed it to the publishers of that particular edition. 50 bucks.

Sheesh! You think everything has to be derivative? A student can't be Super Brain and just come up with something on his own? I've been coming up with good stuff all my life. I was in the school library doing research on the history of my town's name in first grade. I knew how to spell "encyclopedia" in fifth grade, and totally grasped the distinction between "form" and "from." Along with memorizing the capitals and presidents.

But it's OK if you want to be suspicious. I know myself, and I don't copy! An old psychological saw comes to mind, something like this: If you're quick to accuse others, you've confessed your own guilt. So I'll let you think about that for a while. By the way, there's a similar blues song, "Before you 'cuse me, take a look at yo'self." I hope I got the dialect right...

It's funny, though, how we do that. We always think it's some guy faraway in Zurich or Berlin who has to be responsible for all the brainy stuff in the world. Because everyone knows that some kid on your block or anonymous guy on the internet -- a local guy with a blog -- can't know anything! Heavens forfend! That any of us may have gone to college, as I actually did. And you can't go to all the parties I went to and not learn something.

You might be interested to know, though, I come from interesting stock, where anything's possible... Meaning, I had a redheaded uncle. On that, I don't know if there's a psychological postulate, but there should be. Redheaded men go through so much, they either prosper beyond your wildest imagination or they die. Which I didn't know when I was a kid. I thought Uncle Hoist was just another hayseed uncle. And he cultivated that image, for reasons of his own, but when he revealed himself he was an entirely different guy.

Only a few people knew how smart Hoist was. Of course one of those was Aunt Eedee, who, it turns out, served as his "right hand man" for many years in his lab work and studies. It's funny, though, to the outside world Hoist was just a "good old boy," but like I said, when he revealed himself, it was a whole different thing! The man was a genius. I don't know if he applied for the certificate, but he could've.

Anyway, here's the tie-in with my "Ladder and Scaffold" chart. I had just come home from college, and I had the original copy of it with the big fat shiny "A." We were at Hoist and Eedee's for a barbecue. And Hoist (as the hayseed) was sitting there with no shirt, proud with his bright red hair and completely white hairless chest. He calls me over and goes, "You did this, boy?" He has it in his left hand and softly taps it with the back of his right. The old hayseed then turns it upside down, like he's trying to make heads or tails of it, since it does look a bit complicated. I can see he's challenged by the advanced vocabulary, deep concepts, and impressiveness of the big fat shiny "A." I said, hoping not to condescend, "That's an A, Hoist, the best grade you can get." He looked confused, but apparently reached some level of understanding as to what I was attempting to enunciate.

Anyway, Hoist takes a piece of tape -- This is a redheaded man! -- and sticks the chart right in the center of the keg, putting it on good display for the family. "Wee doggies!" he ejaculates, "This deserves a big celebration!" Eedee comes out with an apple pie and bowl of her patented chop suey, which I loved, and I knew I'd hit the big time.

Later, then, Hoist is nowhere to be found. And Eedee comes over and whispers that he wants to see me in the garage. I get there and he's taken the chart off the keg and had it laminated. I'm aghast, as it turns out Hoist isn't just a good old boy, but something else! We get in a narrow elevator, a small chamber in the corner, and descend to an underground lab, 50 feet down, under the garage, and massive like the Batcave, where Hoist has been busy doing experiments and running studies on human consciousness (and other consciousness, as much as he has time for -- dogs, cats, horses, etc.) In fact, it turned out he's the guy who painstakingly quantified the horrific psychological effects of Lawn Darts on insects.

Suddenly, he tells me that my Self Images chart -- after 40 years of agonizing twists and turns and theories he's worked on -- finally clarified everything for him, being "the one perfect road map" as to how things are! Isn't that amazing! Then he goes, "To think you had all this lying dormant in your mind all those years -- while playing basketball in my driveway -- and I, your faithful redheaded uncle, never recognized it! I'll need time to process this, my worst failure..." I felt badly, but knew he'd bounce back, like redheaded men generally do, and very soon he was his jolly self. Although serious, too, as the serious scientist he turned out to be.

I toured the lab and was amazed at the facility, his investment, and work. This was in the '80s, Hoist is now gone. At that time he had just concluded a five-year project in child psychology. If truth be told, Hoist deserves most of the credit for the drop in serious drug addiction stats among children under 5 in the '90s. And going with that, perhaps even more important, Hoist and Eedee worked with an endless procession of dogs in the testing of invisible fence technology, meaning those kids could finally play in the neighborhood without fear and needing to resort to drugs.