What to Inspect When You're Expecting: Letting Nature Take Its Coarse

Further to yesterday's post, it turns out people have vociferous and disparate feelings when it comes to human reproduction. In particular, it seems that some people really do believe that not having babies will somehow save the Earth. Well, to them I pose the following question:

"Without more people, who will staff the Starbucks?!?"

Think about it. Do you think a moose or a kangaroo or even a monkey could figure out how to make a Venti White Chocolate Mocha? I doubt it. (Well maybe the monkey could, but not without a human in a green apron to teach him, and then he'd still be unable to make correct change.) And if there are no people left to make Venti White Chocolate Mochas, then who will make coffee for the animals? See, they need us--and we need them, so that they can fulfill their divine purpose by dying and becoming oil. It's called "symbiosis." Or "symbiolosis." Or "sciatica" or something. I don't know, look it up.

And I'm not even going to get into the fate of the iPhone in a people-free world. Won't somebody please think of the iPhones?!?

Anyway, one person who is untroubled by the moral implications of procreation is famed bicycle cycling sprinter and current World Champion Mark "The Man Missile" Cavendish, who recently issued forth the following "Tweet" concerning the issue of his issue:

I'm assuming the "beyond doubt" part means he was withholding the "Tweet" pending the results of the DNA test. Yes, paternity can sometimes come down to what you might euphemistically call a "photo finish" if there are a lot of other "sprinters" involved, so it's always good to make sure the "win" really belongs to you and not one of your competitors. Such is the chaos inherent in the "bunch sprint" of life.

Needless to say, I'm very happy for them both, and since one day that mini-"Man Missile" or petite Peta (as the case may be) is going to ask his or her parents where he or she came from, I've prepared an explanation in a child-friendly storybook format so that they can let the little Man or Peta (not to be confused with mani-pedi) figure it out for him- or herself.

How Pro Cycling Babies Are Made

One day, Daddy, who was an awesome sprinter, saw something that he liked very, very much:

Actually, he saw two things that he liked very much, and both of them were attached to Mommy:

(So ample is Peta's bosom that it provides plenty of room for censorship by means of the "recumbabe," who is in turn censored by the time-traveling t-shirt-wearing retro-Fred from the planet Tridork Bret.)

Daddy was sponsored by a mobile phone company at the time, so he paid somebody at the company to give him Mommy's number, even though it was a secret:

("I'm thumbing my nipple right now, does that turn you on?")

Mommy wasn't impressed, but Daddy was persistent:

("I have something this big to give you!")

Mommy was amazed by the size of Daddy's, uh, palmar├Ęs, and so they did something with a dirty name that mommies and daddies do when they love each other very much:

Twelve minutes later, Daddy "popped his top""

Daddy's bottle was full of millions of tiny "bubbles," which all raced as fast as they could to make friends with Mommy's inside parts. Daddy's "bubbles" were very, very fast, but one "bubble" was even faster than the rest:

(The winning sperm benefitted from many off-season hours in the wind tunnel.)

Soon, something was growing inside of Mommy:

And then, nine moths later, a stork carrying a precious bundle came:

Which really has nothing whatsoever to do with the story, except that it happened around the time you came out of Mommy's vagina:

It hurt Mommy a lot, which is why she's squeezing Daddy's "pants yabbies."

Now, Mommy and Daddy are very tired all the time, and that's why they smell like whiskey:

The end.

Speaking of Twitter and the natural course of things, Copenhagenzine alerted me via the aforementioned social network of the following "modest proposal:"

A lot of deer get hit by cars west of Crown Point on U.S. 231. There are too many cars to have the deer crossing here. The deer crossing sign needs to be moved to a road with less traffic.

- Tim Abbott, Crown Point


See? We don't need to stop reproducing in order to save the environment. All we need is better signage for the animals. Remember all that unpleasantness with the BP spill in the Gulf of Mexico? Well, we could have been spared all those images of oil-slathered wildlife if only BP had posted a bunch of these all over the beach:

Sure, you'd have to tweak it a bit since I don't think there were too many oil-coated baboons and kangaroos paddling around out there, but you get the point. With adequate signage, all the animals would have simply gone to the pool instead until the wonderful people at BP had a chance to fix the leak. This is yet another argument in favor of human reproduction. Without us, who the hell is going to put up signs? Those stupid animals will have no idea where to go. They'd probably just stand around licking themselves.

Meanwhile, in other wildlife news, a reader tells me that a man who looks like he should be living in a ramshackle shack with a blunderbuss is selling a state-of-the-art time trial bike:

Of course, pro cycling fans will recognize the seller as Dave Zabriskie:

(Old Man Zabriskie says: "I done whittled it with my own two hands.")

If you want to own an authentic piece of artisanal backwoods hand-crafted Americana, this is the bike for you. If you don't, then git offa his property or he's a-gonna shoot.

And speaking of incongruous images, Eric in Seattle spotted this Huffy Santa Fe on the back of a Jaguar:

Either some snotty kid is going to be extremely disappointed with the fixed-gear conversion he's getting for Christmas, or that doofus John Cassidy is about to get back in the saddle again.

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