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The Evolution of Man: Abridged

Posted by in Genital Engagements | 0 comments

At the dawn of Earth time, for those who believe that time exists, or for those who believe the universe dawned at a specific moment 10-20 billion years ago (give or take a few billion), primeval atoms circulated within our nascent atmosphere like free radicals.

They were constantly colliding into each other and creating friction. Friction brought heat, heat changed the atoms and combined with atmospheric pressures and gases and, in another single moment in pre-history, the first single celled organism was born, on an exact date that may never be known to our species. This fledgling came into this world and was forced to adapt. Adaptation caused deformation in its reproduction. The deformed organism developed more advanced skills than its parent organism and reproduced a further tweaked replica of itself itself (Of course these things were occurring over the course of several hundred thousand years).

Though the landscape was tumultuous and the atmosphere toxic, rudimentary life spawned. In different climates of the world, evolution took very different shapes. In the northern most parts of the Pangea continent, the species of simple organism had grown an even more rudimentary appendage, used for collecting food. Over several million years there were aquatic creatures and then they took to the land and evolved into massive reptiles. They then took to the skies as the earth continued to drive this evolution with its self-construction.

Once again, though, the great lizards mysteriously disappeared (depending on your beliefs). From the wreckage of a lost planet, a new wave of species was born. They were even more advanced and some may have begun walking upright on 2 legs, sometime later. Their hair thinned out, their intelligence and brain matter grew yet their keen instincts and survival skills remained. This hunter-gatherer was driven by one guiding and uncontrollable force: survival for reproduction. Eat, sleep, and hump. Eat, ward off saber-toothed cat, hump, sleep. Kill giant hairy elephant, hump, eat, sleep. Humping is a primal instinct. We do whatever we can in life to protect from outside dangers and sickness, so that we can hump and make babies. We hump. We hump and we sometimes might not even know why.

How many times have you heard these popular catch phrases:
“I didn’t want to hump him/her but I did it anyway” or “Bitch, I just pity fucked the shit out of that motherfucking nerd”?

It’s ingrained in our ancient fibers. We must hump. And I realized this on a bright sunny day in Arizona in March 2004, with a raging-anthropomorphic hangover.

****

Weddings are pathetic. The sobbing, the tenseness, the vows; it’s not as beautiful, I’m sure, as every 12 year old gypsy dreams it to be. I arrived as late as possible in a dark suit with bright gold aviator sunglasses. The glasses, concealing my ‘drunkie eyes.’ Whatever . . . the groom walks the aisle, then the parents with blistered wallets and squeamish smiles. Then more sobbing as the bride waits for her ceremonial music like a loaded cannon. I was bored.

‘Avec le gaz!’

I was looking for some sort of catastrophe to liven things up. I nodded to a counterpart who had also thrown a few back before arriving. As vows were being tossed around like a Southeast Asian whore, my friend and I casually stood up and walked to the beer keg 30 feet behind the hallowed procession grounds. We couldn’t drink fast enough; our thirst was insatiable. The groom kissed the bride, I think, and everyone began celebrating the death of one man’s awesome single life. The crowd was a bit surprised to find me balancing my friend upside down above the keg with the spout in his mouth.

“7,8,9,10…come on you pussy…11, 12…”, He only held a 12 count on his keg stand, but I cleared 15.

Nobody else was amused. We certainly were. I lifted him up again and he kicked an innocent bystander in the head. We realized that we should probably move on. Completely intoxicated, we stumbled out into the front of the food line, ate, and quickly departed en route to a bar, very soon after.
The details that follow are about as clear as mud (Though days later I discovered I still managed to rack up a multi-hundred dollar bar tab). I remember getting in a foreign car. I clearly remember being lip-locked in the back seat with an unidentified woman. Finally, I remember pouncing on her vagina like a cat-nipped kitten.

I woke up feeling like I was Jimi, walking underneath the ocean, though probably more nauseous than he had ever been. I rolled into the center of the bed and partially onto another body. The body released a neanderthalic groan and fell back asleep. I felt like my days, shit… my minutes were numbered. With all of the strength I could squeeze out of my corps’ing torso I rolled out of bed. My penis was hanging out of the front slot of my boxers, my wife beater was ripped, and I was still wearing mismatched dress socks. I couldn’t be bothered with putting my crusted pecker away, so I just left it there hoping to use it as a navigational device. Most people don’t know this but a penis will of course, first hunt vagina, but will then help men find other basic necessities once its primary goal has been accomplished. I found the fridge. The hum was hurting my head. The white door was covered in strange cave drawings of bears and photos and magnets and was far too loud for my eyes. I turned away to rest my skull on a tiled island in the kitchen. As I laid my troubled head onto my forearm, my hand passed over a small patch of leather on the cold tile. It was a bill fold and an ID. I pulled the ID out, as if it were my prize ticket for what lay in slumber for me in the bedroom.

‘Organ donor…Gina Hoggenlots…09/26/1965…Weight: 175…Height…’

‘Wait a second’, I thought. 1965? 1965. Nineteen sixty fucking five? Nineteen-who-with-what-and-where? I scrambled to do the math.
‘I was born in 79, that makes me…24’ got it.
‘1965 is 14 years before 79…that makes her… 39 fucking years old’
I looked at the picture again. Holy shit, 39 years old. I pictured her sitting on a sectional couch with my mom, only a few years her elder, chatting about the way things were when they were kids, knitting.

The taste of Orange Juice intensifies when it’s poured down your throat straight from the carton. It was Florida Orange Juice, I could tell from the label that said “Pure Florida Orange Juice.” It rushed through my mouth and into my gullet as if a dam busted. I choked as I swallowed too quickly. I felt my heart palpitating in my chest and I got a bit woozy. Hand on my forehead I wondered why I continued to do this to myself. My body isn’t built to overcome this sort of trauma every weekend. I set the opened carton down on the tiled counter-top next to a few receipts, a tin of cookies, and a TJ Max club card. I closed the door to the fridge and looked a bit closer at the tribal drawings that covered its surface area.

‘To: Mommy
Love: Christopher’
One was an outline of a small hand; on the thumb a poorly proportioned poultry head had been imposed. Next to it was a small magnet picture frame. It was a purple monster smiling toothily, and within his belly a youngster in a soccer jersey held a white ball with adorning black patches. The kid had long mousey hair, just like his mom.

She awoke from her slumber and shaking her hair out approached the kitchen, where I was peering over her mail, fridge door cracked to blow cold air onto my torso.
“You can put that away if you want”

I reached for the OJ and gladly returned it to its stewarding fridge. She reached for my penis and stuffed it nonchalantly back into my boxers like a sock into a hamper. A tube sock, mind you. She then kissed me on my cheek and wiped it off with the palm of her hand. That’s what my grandmother used to do when she kissed me. I sat down in her living room, she discussed something that I can’t clearly recall but I was short on every answer. I was uncomfortable and wanted to leave. My work here had already been done. It’s like asking the general contractor who built your house to stay around a bit longer to decorate. I despondently grazed the room with my eyes.
“You know, you were very loving last night” She said between sips of her Iced Tea
“Yeah, I was super drunk, I guess” I had no other way to rationalize anything I may or may not have done that night. She sat down next to me and began running her fingers through my hair.
“You were running your fingers through my hair just like this last night and it really turned me on”
“Oh, yeah, that’s cool, good times.” I was staring at the floor. Her breath smelled like last night and 39 years of unsatisfying relationships.

“Y’know, when a women gets to be my age she likes doing what we did last night more frequently. In fact, we want to do it all the time.” Her hand moved from my head to my kneecap. Her index finger swirled around it.
“Hey, you know, don’t want to trouble you too much, but I have a flight to catch. So, if you don’t mind…”
“You’re right; I wouldn’t want to hold you up.” We left her small 2 bedroom house in downtown Phoenix. My friends were out in the front yard of their house; beers already cracked when I stepped out of Gina’s minivan. They didn’t say anything, but they never broke their stares as I walked by and into the house. My friends and I never made eye contact, but I could feel them following me like those weird, ghosty busts on the haunted mansion ride at Disneyland. Once I closed the door behind me, a chorus of laughter broke out that could have raised the dead. If it raised female dead I may have proceeded to intercourse them, as well.
I flew home that evening and by the time I got in my car to drive home I was alerted that I had a message on my voice mail.

“Eric, this is Gina, just making sure you got home OK. I’m thinking about you, call me back.”
I decided long ago that I wouldn’t do the ‘one night stand and never call again routine’ anymore. It’s just too inflammatory for a gentleman. I called her back late that night
The phone rang twice and was answered by a twitchy high-pitched voice.
“Hellllooooo??”
“Hi, is your mommy home?”
“Whoze dis?”
“This is Eric, is your mom home?”
“Daddy?”
“NO, Eric. That sounds nothing like ‘dad’. Can you get your mom for me?”
“DADDY!! HI Daddy, DADDY!!!”
“E-R-I-C. I’m not your dad.”
“DADDY, I got an ‘A’ in math”
“Uh, good. Now, go get an ‘A’ in putting mom on the phone.”
“DADDY, can you come over?”
“Listen kid….” In the background I could hear Gina asking repeatedly who it was on the phone. The kid wouldn’t answer; instead he proceeded to play keep away. His mom was chasing him in and out of the bedrooms yelling at him to give her the phone. There wasn’t any talking, just breathing on the phone as he darted underneath beds, into the backyard, in closets, and finally he was captured back in the kitchen. I simply sat and listened, unclear about what I should actually do. I didn’t want to hang up on the little guy. 40 years from now I could see him pleading insanity and blaming his psychosis on some guy who used his mom as weekend pussy, posing as his dad, then hanging up the phone on him. I could finally hear that she snatched the phone out of his hand. I heard an adolescent ‘yelp’ and ‘ow’ in the process.
“Hello?”
“Hi, its Eric, we had sex…just calling you back.”

She pulled the phone away from her mouth and covered the receiver with her left hand as to impede my hearing. Though, I clearly heard her say, “THAT’S NOT YOUR FUCKING DADDY, HIS NAME IS ERIC. YOUR DADDY DOESN’T CALL YOU ANYMORE!!!” She then returned the phone back to her ear and calmed voice.
“Sorry about that.”

After a few seconds delay for sound to catch up with twitching chin, scrunched face, and gaping mouth, a whaling pitch came from the room where she was talking to me. The kid had exploded into a frenzied scream and crying sesh. I clutched the sides of my temples. I felt terrible, but really none of this was my fault. Well maybe some of it. As she tried to control his tantrum with an iron fist, I bowed out as quickly as possible…
“Hey, you’re busy, I’ll call you later on”
“No, one…hold on…just…” She was having trouble juggling fierce discipline and a phone conversation.
“Good Night” and I hung up the phone.
****
As sure as the westwinds blow, as does the march of time proceed and bring about the train of human progress. Let it be known that all reproductive practice, whether it be for glory or unknown forces, carry a handsome skin-stick and produce results with it fearing no repercussion.

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