SemiConscious Dot Org

This afternoon, I booked my tickets to fly back home to Maine in July for a friend’s wedding.

Don’t worry, this isn’t going to be one of those “I’m thirty-something, and all my friends are getting married, and I’m still single! I think it’s time to subject the world to some hellish introspection! Boo hoo hoo!” posts. Believe you me, no one is more nauseated by those “dear diary”-type blogs than I am.

No, this post is about Darwinism. Well, that and Brutal, Bloody Violence. The specific question I’m asking is: if one knows for a fact that a certain strain of DNA should not perpetuate itself, does one have a duty to do something about it?

My friend, see. He’s getting married, and he and his blushing bride will no doubt soon be turning their thoughts, as young married couples often do, to the production of children. The problem is that NOTHING IN THE WORLD COULD BE WORSE FOR THE HUMAN RACE THAN IF THIS MAN IS ALLOWED TO REPRODUCE. I’ve known him for 15 years, and he is one of my best friends, but he is a sick, depraved, perverse individual, and his rancid genes must not be allowed to find shelter. His broken chromosomes will spread like a virus, breaking off the heads and shitting down the necks of competing chromosomes, spawning a kind of reverse-evolution that will eventually have us all swinging from the trees again.

Who is my friend? He can be best described in famous words by the late, much-lamented Saint Gonzo:

There he goes. One of God’s own prototypes. Some kind of high powered mutant never even considered for mass production. Too weird to live, and too rare to die.

A cool person to know, obviously, but most assuredly not someone who was ever meant to spawn offspring. On the day he told me of the upcoming nuptials, the first words out of my mouth, even before “Congratulations,” were “for God’s sake, don’t reproduce.” He just giggled, his eyes rolling in different directions, leering maniacally, as if to say, “The get of my loins shall be Legion. Do something about it, bitch.” And it was then that my mission became clear.

At the ceremony, I must walk up to my friend and castrate him with a salad fork. For the Good of Humanity.

Now, before you automatically recoil in shock and revulsion, ask yourself the question: If you could, by the simple violent application of a fork to someone’s testicles, prevent much further human misery, wouldn’t you? Or to take the analogy further, if you could, for instance, travel back in time and snip a few parachute cords to make, say, George H.W. Bush’s chute fall a little quicker, causing him to smack his nuts on the surface of the water just a leeeeeetle bit harder, making him infertile, and thus preventing the birth of this, wouldn’t you do it? Sure as shit you would. What sane person wouldn’t?

See, it’s the Butterfly Effect, only without that “Punk’d” dipshit. By impaling my friend’s family jewels with a serving utensil, I am guaranteeing that future generations will grow up free, in a world of truth, beauty, and light. It is, quite possibly, the one single act I was put on this earth to accomplish. And trust me, if you knew him, you’d do the same.