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Explosive Journalism - Opinion Columns by Michael Giardina

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Horny Spring Crickets
by Michael Giardina

Last night, I complained to my roommate, "Nader, why are we all so ashamed about our sexual thoughts and desires? I mean, consider crickets. Their entire existence consists of perching on a twig for 12 hours and repetitively begging for an insect-with-privileges relationship. Chirp!"

Nader quickly retorted, "Yes, Mr. Giardina. You also have a brain that's a few hundred times as big as a cricket.

Great, I thought. I've got a big lump of cerebral cortex that allows me to feel guilty and shameful every time I get the urge for butterfly kisses and a special little trick that runs in the Giardina family called the Enhanced Eskimo Nudge. Watch out ladies. Chirp!

It's ironic that we're encouraged to be ashamed of sex. Fascination and obsession with the horizontal fandango is considered a weakness. This weakness is so universal, though, that I will dare to call it ... forgive me Mother ... normal.

We're worse than crickets. Just the other day, my roommate and I were discussing whether a whale or a barnacle was better endowed.

"Sixteen feet long, Michael," Nader said. "Imagine the options."

"But a barnacle's masculine member is 20 times the size of its body," I said. "He could reach across the room to poke your girlfriend."

"After the delightful discussion, I sat down in class and the teacher began talking about natural selection. "You need to be fit to produce more offspring," he said excitedly. "The more mates, the better."

Trying to ignore the blasphemous teacher, I decided to catch up on some history homework. "America was a virgin continent being settled," I read to myself."It was bound to hurt the first time." Chirp!

Trying to avoid the evils of sexual thought, I made the most logical move: I turned on the TV. You won't believe what I found on public television. The first channel depicted women in bikinis mud wrestling.

To save myself from shame, I changed the channel. Now I was watching Asian girls, surrounded by a plastic curtain, being forced to change outfits in 20 seconds. If they didn't get dressed quickly enough, the curtain fell to the floor, exposing big blurry splotches on my screen.

Feeling full of sin and weakness, I ran quickly to my computer. I'll just check my e-mail, I thought. My professors and friends won't offer me such blatant perversion. The first message read, "Don't buy her flowers; give her milk..." The rest of the e-mail I can't print without getting fired.

Frustrated, running frantically about to avoid shallow thought-crime, I decided to open my new guitar-lessons book. The author began, "One should think of the guitar like a woman's body. Caress it. Play it slowly and gently before strumming to a passionate crescendo." Come on, women don't have strings. Well, at least not usually.

Sigh. No matter where you go, sex is going to be rasping its vicious knuckles on the wall and scratching its evil fingernails on the chalkboards. It needs attention.

What do I recommend? Embrace it. Stop worrying about your sexuality. Enjoy your partner, yourself or that person you met on the bus (or the bus stop, for that matter.) Live it up.

Perhaps you should join the Davis Swingers Club, a group of people who get together regularly for a fun-filled night of safe frolicking. They get tested for STDs every month and have a Trojan party with 20 to 50 people every other Friday. They've even installed soundproofing to avoid noise violations.

Oops, did I just get you excited? Are you already writing down my e-mail address so that you can sign yourself up ASAP? Hold your horses, bucko. There's no Davis Swingers Club. Maybe there should be. I'm just planting seeds.