Thoughts on Sex Education

We've all heard the stories. A young girl gets pregnant, decides to keep the baby, drops out of school, goes on welfare, etc. The young father usually gets lost quickly. Sad story, right?

We've all heard about AIDS, herpes, the clap, etc. All completely tragic. Right?

Most Americans think that it should be the parents' job to educate their kids about sex...right? Keep it OUT of the schools! It might give little Johnny & Judy ideas! (or Johnny & Jimmy or Judy & Jenny or any other possible configuration)

Why not start Sex Ed in preschool when the kids still think that the opposite sex has cooties? And keep up those classes through graduation! A properly constructed curriculum could suck (pardon the pun) the fun right out of sex! It could be made as boring as, say, history class!

If this were to happen, then chances are, only the smart kids would be having sex! (homework, right?) This would not only cut down on unwanted teen pregnancies and STDs, this could also lead to a super race of uber nerds!

Think about it: a hyper-educated nation of sexy people with glasses, protractors and pocket protectors! Bill Gates & Stephen Hawking would be considered the sexiest men alive!

And with all of that super-knowledge would come intensely well-thought out new sexual positions!

So far...this is sounding like a win/win situation.

More to come...if you'll, again, pardon the pun.

;-)

Comments

The Tsar of Back in My Day

Lately, he’d been thinking about his ex-father-in-law. Not the ex-wife - calm down. That road had enough potholes already. No, this was about Kolya. They had never been especially close. Between the language barrier, the cultural divide, and the lingering fog of the recently ended Cold War, “warm relationship” was never really on the menu. Still, Kolya had made an impression. Men like that tended to. He was somewhere in his mid-to-late sixties when they met. Picture the farmer from American Gothic if he’d been drafted by the Soviet Union, fed boiled cabbage, and taught to glare professionally. Bald as a cannonball, which somehow made his head seem even larger. Thick square plastic eyeglasses magnified his eyes until they looked like a permanent accusation. He dressed sharply, but in a way that suggested the tailor’s motto had been adequate for the State . Then there were his teeth. No expert on the subject, he could only assume cosmetic dentistry had been dismissed by the Soviets a...

Fags & Faggots

It was late February 2002, and I was getting ready for my first trip overseas. I had lucked into a handful of gigs, and I was thrilled by the chance. I grew up watching lots of Hammer horror films, and almost any British show I could find. Monty Python's Flying Circus, The Benny Hill Show, Dave Allen, and Tommy Cooper were regular viewing thanks to public television. I spent plenty of time reading British literature, especially Arthur Conan Doyle. My maternal grandfather’s family was British, so it’s fair to say I was an Anglophile. I thought I had a pretty good understanding of “the Queen’s English.” I was well acquainted with terms like spanner, lorry, telly, and most hilarious to twelve-year-old me, fags (or cigarettes, for those unaware). I was under the mistaken impression that “wanker” could be used as a term of endearment, not unlike jagoff. I later found this to be…not quite accurate. I was admittedly concerned about the food. While I occasionally consider myself ad...

THE BOOK I'LL NEVER WRITE

He sometimes said his greatest regret was not taking the old Trans-Siberian Railway eastward to Lake Baikal. Not because he cared much for bucket lists. He considered such catalogs as vanity with stationery, for those who had wasted decades suddenly writing down ten expensive ways to continue wasting time. No, what he regretted was more precise than that. He regretted never sitting in a dim canteen somewhere near Irkutsk while some broad-faced stranger lied to him magnificently over soup and vodka. He regretted never hearing the room laugh at a joke he only half understood. He regretted missing stories that would now likely never be told the same way again. His body had long since vetoed such ambitions. These days he was lucky if the month’s arithmetic ended with enough left over for prescriptions. If Melinda French Gates wished to finance a crippled Pennsylvanian’s global adventures, he remained open to discussion, but until then, conversations near Lake Baikal would have to survi...

The Real Memphis Mike (don't settle for imitations)

Search This Blog