by Phil Stern
Same thing with these tards who claim that this or that is “impossible.” Here’s my favorite. About sixty years ago, the leading authorities claimed it was impossible to clone another living thing. Then somebody cloned a frog. Well, that’s an amphibian. That’s the exception. Can’t clone anything other than a frog. Then somebody cloned a mouse or something. Another exception, it was claimed. Then somebody cloned a sheep. Well, all right, you can clone bovines, but certainly not humans…
You get the idea. Everything is “impossible” until somebody does it. Facts are only “known” until disproved. Science is the ultimate contradiction, a discipline based on absolute knowledge that’s constantly being revised.
By the way, I completely believe in evolution. You’d have to be a tard not to. Please, there’s nothing “intelligent” about the human body (we’re actually very frail with lots of spare parts that don’t work) and God would have to be the ultimate sadist to create a system where cute little animals all grow up to systematically slaughter and eat one another.
But let me give you creationists a leg up on this one. You want to challenge the evolutionists? Ask them to explain how different species “evolved” different numbers of chromosomes. You can’t say it was a mutation. What, some hamster just happened to mutate two extra chromosomes, and then find some other hamster who just happened to mutate the exact same two extra chromosomes at the same time, and they then made extra-chromosome mutant baby hamsters together? That’s a little hard to swallow. I can’t see how an evolutionary process requiring matched sexual reproduction, as currently understood, can account for varying numbers of chromosomes in different species. I’m sure we will understand it one day, but we don’t yet.
Of course, we don’t know what sparked life to begin with. The current explanation is that some combination of rocks rubbed together in just the right way, giving birth to an amoeba. I tend to think that’s a little vague. The science boys still have some work to do on this one.
And how did we evolve from asexual to sexual reproduction? I mean, which came first, the penis or the vagina? That’s a tough one.
But on the other hand, please don’t give me the whole “missing link” argument. We’ve found plenty of animals with both gills and lungs, legs and flippers, etc.
And by the way, I have news for all you creation/religious types. At some point in every argument you have to simply concede something was there to begin with. You want to say God provided the first spark? All right. But who created God? You see what I mean? Every answer simply provokes another question. But those unanswered questions are not evidence of God’s existence.
All right, I’ll get off my soap box now. (Isn’t that an interesting expression? At some point people must have addressed each other while standing on big soap boxes!) For my next blog (fuck Steve, I’m calling this a blog) I will give my thoughts on gay marriage. Until then, have a pleasant day.
SOPHIA DANTON
People ask me all the time what the big deal was with my upbringing. So my parents were a little strict, so what? Yeah, sure, they went overboard on the whole “purity” thing, but isn’t that better than these parents who let their kids run around town all day, getting into all kinds of trouble?
But there’s inevitably a backlash that comes from such repression. And yes, I really spun out of control for a few years. How cliche, right? The Catholic Princess turned bad girl? Well, that was me.
So how wild did I get? Well, about two months into my second semester at Buffalo, I left school to live in Sweden with a man I’d just met.
Like I said, I’d lost my virginity the previous fall. So by the time I met Jurgen that particular patch of water was not only under the bridge, but way down river and far, far out to sea.
Jurgen claimed to be a poet traveling across America. Actually, he was a poor farmer living on welfare back in Sweden, but at the time he was so mysterious and foreign! And I was so bored with school, and sick of my parent’s bullshit. The way Virgin-Gate had unfolded left me very raw and hurt. So when Jurgen invited me to go back home with him, I agreed.
Oh, what delicious pleasure it was to call my mother from Stockholm. That’s right, Mommy, Stockholm! No, it’s not in Western New York. No, not Canada either! Actually, Stockholm is in fucking Europe! That’s right, Mommy! If you had a modern phone, and not the old rotary piece of shit Daddy keeps next to the bed, you’d see a very odd number on your phone screen. Maybe you should look at a map, Mommy. Do you have any maps? Oh, that’s right. Jesus didn’t need any maps, and neither do you. Maybe that’s why you get lost all the fucking time.
What am I doing in Stockholm? Oh, I don’t know. This and that. But don’t worry, Mommy, I’m here with a young, sexy, Swedish man! Yes, Mommy, it is cold! But don’t worry, Jurgen keeps me nice and warm at night. Am I doing porn? Why, no Mommy, but you know what? Maybe I will! After all, I’m just a worthless whore now anyway, so what does it matter? Drugs? Sure, Mommy, why not? After all, you know how us hot and horny whores love drugs!
And on it went. But to give my mother credit she at least tried to reason with me. Daddy didn’t even get on the phone. My father, you see, was on non-speaking terms with his non-virgin slut of a daughter.
I lived with Jurgen for a month, but life on a broken down Swedish farm isn’t much fun. After finally telling him to fuck off I wandered around Sweden for a few weeks, then toured Europe all summer long. Mostly I lived in hostels, but also crashed with a myriad of friends I made along the way.
And yes, I stayed with friends of both genders. Let’s just say an attractive, open-minded American girl can have a lot of fun in Europe.
Here are some highlights. For about three weeks I lived in Italy with some government minister’s mistress. Look, in Italy it wasn’t any big deal. Young women just went to parties and met rich married guys and went off on weekends with them, all expenses paid. Or maybe the guy would rent a mistress-pad for the girl, so he could see her whenever he wanted.
That’s how Renia, this girl I’d met, lived in a beautiful apartment in Rome. The guy only dropped in a few times a week to have sex with her, so Renia let me crash there. When the sugar daddy came by, I just threw on some clothes and slipped out to see the sights. When the minister was with his own family, Renia and I partied all over town.
Money was never a problem. Renia had the guy’s credit card. He also gave her some extra spending cash after each visit. (Lets just say the line between a mistress and a prostitute isn’t always clear.) But Renia and I had a lot of fun together, and the arrangement seemed to work for everybody.
But then Renia’s sugar daddy got a little jealous and began pressing for a threesome. And since I was staying in the apartment he was paying for, he felt I kind of owed him. I played dumb for a while, but finally sugar daddy laid down the law. Renia came to me and basically said I had to do this guy with her or leave the mistress-pad.
All right, let’s just get a few things out of the way right now. I am not a lesbian, nor do I consider myself generally bisexual. But that was a time of grand experimentation, and Renia was a beautiful person, both inside and out. Actually, I can still close my eyes and picture her naked body next to mine, soft, green eyes focused on me, the sounds of a busy Roman street drifting up through the open window. It was very intense. I might have stayed there a very long time.
So yes, I asked Renia to dump the old bastard and come back to the U.S. with me. We could support ourselves, get an apartment together in Buffalo. She could even get a degree! But she just smiled, and kissed me, and said that wasn’t possible. So I cried all night and cleared out in the morning, hopping on the first train headed into Austria.
We exchanged a few letters, but soon lost touch. She’s married now with three kids. Actually, her husband is some minister himself. I see Renia’s picture every once in a while on the internet, at some social function, rich dark hair cascading over her lovely face. I hope she’s happy. I really do.
Look, it was all relatively on th
e up and up. There were times when I briefly stayed with a few older men in Europe, but I always left when they started pressing expensive gifts on me. One guy actually left a stack of bills on the night stand one morning. I threw the money at him and walked out. I am not, and never was, that kind of girl. Renia might have been controlled that way, but that was her thing, not mine.
My brother Michael wired me some money on several occasions, always with a plea to come home. Mom and Dad were beside themselves, he said, and had contacted the FBI, State Department, the Swedish Embassy, Interpol, and anybody else they could think of. My father had also threatened to sue the college for “allowing” me to be seduced by a “foreign agent.” Of course, everyone told him that I was over eighteen and could do whatever I wanted, and simply defying his wishes didn’t constitute any kind of crime, much less an international incident. Oh, was that a fun summer.
Some other highlights included living with a Polish teacher for a week. He actually brought me to class for show and tell. Another time, outside a bar in Munich, a drunk asshole tried to drag me into a back room, but I twisted free and ran out the front door.
Oh, but did I have a thing for the artist types! I met this painter in southern France. He lived in this huge, empty loft with wide windows overlooking the water on one side and the town on the other. Dozens of paintings were propped all over the place. Before the paint-splattered far wall was a huge easel. A large, unmade bed was in the center of the room.
I can still remember, like it was yesterday, reclining on the bed, naked, watching Francois paint. His movements were quick and almost violent, stabbing and slashing at the pure, white canvas, an eruption of color and detail appearing where nothing had been before. Francois needed absolute silence, as any noise would break his concentration. So I would just relax, letting the cool Mediterranean breezes wash over my bare skin, studying the ripples within Francois’ shoulder muscles as his latest masterpiece took shape, the anticipation growing with each passing moment.
Finally he would fling down the mangled brush, staring at his own creation in absolute wonder. Spinning about, Francois’ bright blue eyes pulsated with an indescribable elation, his pent up energy longing for release.
Without words, for he spoke no English and I was ignorant of his native language, my French lover would stride over, entering me with the same utter confidence with which he defiled a broad expanse of empty canvas. Flat on my back, Francois thrusting ever deeper, I would then stare at the latest painted rendition of myself, daintily poised upon the easel beyond his shoulder, staring out over a field of dark red lilies, or possibly strolling among lush green grass, or maybe along some beach.
I loved the way I looked at those moments, glistening and wet, raw and fresh, as if born anew within my lover’s creative fire. Never has a man had more right to my physical form than Francois did at those moments, his passion consummated on every conceivable level.
Later, as Francois lay still, utterly spent, I would wander around the studio, drinking in image after stunning image, each girl more beautiful than the last. Somehow, Francois managed to catch their very essence, that grand mixture of worldliness, wonder, and innocence defining a young woman searching for herself. Oddly enough, though knowing full well what inevitably transpired once Francois was done painting, there wasn’t even a hint of jealousy. In truth, I consider them all my sisters, after a fashion, though I’ve never met a single one of them.
I didn’t have any sympathy for Mom’s and Dad’s angst upon my return. By trying to extend their rigid, demeaning control to my college years, they unleashed a boiling rage demanding some type of outlet. To this day they don’t understand, and I doubt they ever will.
Actually the trip was merely the beginning of a five-year sexual outburst. And in truth, I’ve savored my searing, potent European memories. They’ve proved immensely empowering throughout my life and will reside, insulated and safe, within my mind forever.
STEVE LEVINE
On the rarest of occasions, maybe a handful of times throughout a person’s life, you experience an event so powerful, and so emotional, and so unusual, it will stick in your mind forever.
For me, manatee day was one of those moments.
I was about 12, my sister 16. Oddly enough, my family was vacationing in Florida, though I’d no inkling I would later live there. We were heading back to New York in a few days when Megan announced she just had to go on a manatee tour. Nope. Zoos wouldn’t do. We had to go out on the bright sunny water and come face to face with an actual manatee in the wild.
So Mom wandered down to the hotel lobby, returning with several brochures on manatee tours. Each had pictures of cute baby manatees next to delighted human children. On the back could be found images of the small craft used for such excursions.
I can still remember Mom on the phone to the tour people. Has anyone ever been attacked by alligators when swimming with the manatees? Absolutely not! I could hear through the ear piece from across the room. In the entire history of civilization, no one has ever even seen an alligator on these tours! Is it too late in the season? Mom asked. Oh, no! Even though it was already into April, there are hundreds of nonmigratory “resident” manatees always nearby, including fifty mothers and babies! Why, there’d be more manatees out there than we knew what to do with!
So the next morning we all rolled out of bed early and drove off to a tiny shack by the pier from which our tour would depart. As usual Dad was in a foul mood, basically declaring he was accompanying his family under duress. Mom also declined to throw on a wet suit with the rest of the party, saying she had no interest in actually swimming with the manatees. So Megan and I, along with my two sour parents and eight other strangers adorned in tight black suits, cast off with great fanfare and headed out into a coastal Florida river.
The boat itself was a flat metal affair floating on two pontoons, with benches ringing the interior of a small, covered infrastructure. Captain Jeb Stuart Jack, our intrepid leader, conned the ship from the rear.
In his mid-50's, Captain Jack was a lifelong Floridian. Whether Jack was his real name or not I couldn’t say. However, since I never once witnessed him without a bottle of booze in one fist, even when helping people on and off the boat, the name was oddly appropriate. Clearly Captain Jack thought himself a “character,” doing and saying everything with great gusto.
“This here is the great Crystal River!” he soon announced, taking a drag on his first bottle. “Pirates used to troll these here waters, looking to plunder encampments for gold and women!”
Like a hawk, my mother turned her blazing gaze on our guide. “Sir, please refrain from making sexist remarks around my daughter!” Mom instructed. “She’s at a very sensitive age.” Of course, Mom was really the one feeling sensitive at the moment, it being late in the vacation and her patience with Dad now utterly sapped.
Stunned, Captain Jack stared at Mom. After all, he’d been blathering the same patter for the last decade without incident. “I beg your pardon?”
“I said!” Mom now yelled over the engine. “Do not make inappropriate comments around my family!”
“You mean, talking about pirates taking women and stuff?” Genuinely puzzled, Captain Jack scratched his cheek, half-empty liquor bottle banging against his chin.
“Yes! Please refrain from such remarks!”
Shrugging, Captain Jack carefully maneuvered around a log in the river, considering his next move. Unfortunately he tried to smooth things over, addressing himself directly to Megan. “Well, young lady, there’s no reason to be scared! I mean, there ain’t been no pirates for years now. And even when they did steal girls away, they’d always try to ransom them back to their loving families!” Captain Jack belched. “Of course, that might take months. Or even years, sometimes. And, well, even if these virtuous young women had their honor stolen by the pirates, well, uh, you know, their pa and stuff would find some man to marry them off to anyway…”
Captain Jack was saved by the ap
pearance of a large alligator happily meandering down river, huge tail lazily swirling back and forth. Everyone rushed over to the starboard rail to gaze at the prehistoric creature.
An older lady, around 60 or so, gazed fearfully at our intrepid leader. “We were told there were no alligators in the area of the manatee tour!” she quailed.
“Well, now, here’s the way of it.” Radiating calm assurance, Captain Jack dug another liquor bottle from a cooler. “That there’s Maggie. Maggie the gator. Hell, I’ve known Maggie for years!” With a wink Captain Jack took a long drink from the new bottle. “Hell, Maggie wouldn’t hurt a fly.”
This, I’ve subsequently learned, is a common trick within the Florida tourism industry. They simply assign human names to any alligators that happen by, making them seem part of the family. Instantly, fearsome predator is converted to harmless friend.
Along similar lines, the seaside resorts will also tell you no one’s ever been attacked by a shark at their beach. No sir! Ain’t nobody seen a shark at this beach in, well, all recorded history!
You might think safety would be more of an issue, but the Florida economy is concerned solely with bringing in tourist dollars. If said tourists get eaten by alligators, sharks, or raped by time-shifting pirates, well, that’s their problem.
“So you know Maggie?” the child from another family asked.
“Absolutely. Great gal. Good gator.”
“But…so…I mean, there aren’t any bad alligators out here?”
“Oh, no.” Captain Jack gave a reassuring wink. “The sharks ate them all.”
“Sharks?” Fearfully, the child glanced around. “Where are the sharks now?”
“Oh, hell.” A dismissive wave of the liquor bottle. “They all swam out into the ocean! That’s what them sharks do! We’re inland, so we ain’t going to see none of them, no how!”
