Bollocks to God

My genitals prove God doesn’t exist.

Look at them. What kind of hyper-intelligent super-being would create a set of organs like that?

For a long time I’ve thought male genitals – or menitals – to be the most gruesome, pointless, unreliable and untrustworthy collection of objects outside of parliament.

But let’s start with God. This is a being who can – we’re reliably assured by lunatics wearing tin-foil hats – clap his hands twice, shout “Alakazam”, and conjure up a planet, a galaxy, a universe, and all the beings that live in it. He can read the thoughts of every human alive (and dead), know what’s in our hearts, and send us cute little psychic messages like “Abraham, take your son to the top of the hill and almost – but not quite – murder him with a big fuck-off knife”. He can be vengeful but merciful at the same time, and he loves us all but drowns us all, and he can even turn Himself into a burning bush, his own son, and a holy goat… or was it ghost? Sorry, I wasn’t listening.

Are we really claiming that the best this all-powerful God could come up with as a mechanism for passing sperm into a lady is this: a mangled group of things hanging off the front of my body like a parasitic alien?

Take my penis (so to speak): it’s a droopy tube of fat with a hole in the end, and a head like a wizened old man wearing a leathery turtleneck. Even when it gets angry and wants to fight, it flails around blindly, unable to find where it’s meant to go and needing constant guidance and encouragement. If God is so fucking smart, why didn’t he just give me plastic tube and a little plunger to press when I want to dispense semen?

Instead I’ve got to manage with this fugly arrangement, which reminds me of nothing so much as a grumpy and unpredictable sea-cucumber.

At any given time it can either finish too soon, finish when everyone else has long since got bored and started a Sudoku, or decide to not finish at all, give up and go to sleep. Frankly, I find it damned offensive. And when it does deign to grace us with its presence, it’s either so sensitive that it can reduce me to agonized, doubled-up whinnying, or so insensitive that it takes four long, grinding, sweaty hours of Olympian pounding to make it “be sick down your lady-passage”.

If I can keep myself oxygenated for long enough to get to “the point”, I often find that I’m all keyed-up for a monumental eruption, lasting 90 seconds and sending a fountain of little soldiers all over the lucky lady… and instead, for absolutely no reason at all, I produce a watery dribble that reminds everybody involved of a very small, very milky baby sick. And that’s not an erotic thing.

And when I think there’s going to be no more than a dribble, it comes out like a tsunami, knocks over nearby ornaments, permanently ruins the curtains, and blinds somebody.

But this mindless, pug-ugly object can regularly beat my actual brain into dumb acquiescence and make me follow nice bottoms around the supermarket for hours at a time. It can make me forget to work so I can fiddle with myself, and drag me away from minor things like cooking and eating and sleeping so I can maintain a hands-on relationship with my pork-truncheon, and make every day “palm Sunday”.

And then there are the testicles. You can tell what people’s attitude to them is by the fact that the words gonad and scrotum are almost perfectly designed as insults. You can yell them at any annoying teenager, and he’ll want to stab you for “dissing” him. And I don’t blame him for taking umbrage: the whole arrangement is a fucking mess.

Two balls of pain hanging in a sack of skin that looks like off-cuts from Walter Matthau’s last neck-surgery. The entire region is a morass of tubes and pipes and valves, any one of which can block up in a heartbeat and render the whole arrangement defunct. They swivel around inside you, and rise and fall like the Assyrian Empire. They stick to your thigh or drift painfully downwards until they’re trapped in you trouser leg. They swell and droop and contract, and sometimes draw up into your body in a way that convinces people who watch you climb out of the pool that your clingy swimming shorts are covering the smooth, flawless inanity of a Ken doll.

But, with notable exceptions (such as my little visit from Mr Kidney Cancer) at least they don’t bleed for days on end, spread pain throughout your abdomen, back, hips and boobs, or give you violent mood swings.

Q: How many women with PMT does it take to change a lightbulb?

A: One.

Q: Why?

A: It just fucking does, alright!!!

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