The idiom says that there’s no rest for the wicked. I hope that implies, therefore, that there is no rest for those who fight the wicked. Because what kind of asshole superhero are you if you let the bad guys get a jump on you?
“He-Man! I just heard Skeletor surmising an evil plan!”
“Fuck that shit. I’m taking a nap.”
Of course the original phrase is biblical in origin, where in the book of Isaiah God says three different times that there is no peace for the wicked. Or some people say. The original thing was in Hebrew, written by ancient scholars, who I am assuming majored in God-to-Hebrew translations.
Either way, it’s a catchy phrase. Clever people use it all the time for fun, artistic, borderline-satanic things. It brought us Ozzy Osbourne’s fifth studio album, which had Miracle Man and Crazy Babies on it. Awesome and awesome.
It’s also a song by Godsmack (which is ironic) and Cage the Elephant, which was catchy. I mean, they’re no Godsmack, but, you know – credit where credit is due.
And of course a whole slew of things that I’m failing to mention, because there are just too many of them. Or I don’t know about them. Or I forgot.
There are two kinds of men when it comes to mentioning the word “vasectomy”: those who immediately thrust a protective palm over their nether regions and those who have already had one.
If you are among the first population, it is possible that, as protective as you may be of your tender potency, you may be considering getting a vasectomy. Whatever reasons you may have, it is clear that the one thing more terrifying than having your manhood snipped is hearing those two awful words, “I’m late.”
You’ve already taken the first and most important step in the vasectomy trail – you’ve consulted your doctor. He’s explained the procedure to you and answered all of your terrified questions. You’ve read all the clinical pamphlets he sent home (you know, after covering all the disturbing procedure images with blank sticky notes). But can you be that guy? Can you walk around town, the office, a truck dealership, knowing you’re no longer potent?
Consider a woman’s perspective on the matter. (Besides, what is this procedure for if not the T&A?) Only a man would deride another man for shooting blanks. To a woman, a man with a vasectomy is a man who possess two inherent traits: confidence and dependability.
What is the most attractive trait in a potential mate? If you said high cheek bones, you are very close. But the real answer is confidence.
It isn’t as though women aren’t aware how important highly functional testicles are to their male counterparts, even if they disagree on principle. In order for a man to concede to a vasectomy, he has to pry himself away from the stigma that not ejaculating live sperm makes him less of a man. He has to be comfortable enough with his own masculinity to agree to this permanent change in potency. Women get that, and that amount of confidence in one’s own masculinity is attractive.
Traditionally, birth control has always been conceived as a responsibility of the woman. It was the woman who had to take her pill regularly. It was the woman who had to undergo invasive and debilitating surgery to deem a couple permanently barren. It was even the woman who had to ask “do you have a condom?” because when all the blood has been redirected south, you tend to not think of anything else.
In the 21st century women have a lot to do. There is a reason they’re not greeting you at the door with a cigar and a martini when you stroll in from work every night at five-thirty. Chances are she isn’t going to walk in the door for another half an hour. Or she’s taking someone to soccer practice, or boy scouts, or is getting the dog groomed.
In the 21st century, knights in shining armor don’t come with a horse and a lance – they come with a toilet brush and a fly swatter. Anything a man can do to make his female counterpart feel less burdened makes that man immensely sexier.
When a man takes the hard road and relents to a vasectomy, what he’s saying to his female partner is “I’ve got this.” It is showing her that she can rely on him to take care of things; never having to worry about a pill or a condom again is a huge load off. (Pun intended.) You’ve freed her from this particular prison of responsibility.
And in this day and age, That. Is. Hot.
The United States America is the best country on earth. Says Americans. And who’s to say we’re wrong? There are 316 million of us. And the numbers are still growing: we got people coming here all the time, whether it be for the freedoms, the education, or the state of the art freshwater systems.
It’s certainly easy to tout the advantages of living in America versus any of the globe’s “third world” countries. The choice between living in a small, under-furnished studio apartment on Twenty-Sixth Avenue versus residing in a tree next to a parasitic creek and fighting over your next meal with hungry badgers seems like a no brainer.
But when it comes to comparing countries in the first world to other, copper-piped, food-marted first world countries, the details about what makes one better than another kind of all comes out in the wash. There is nothing inherently better or worse about the countries themselves; it’s really the needs of the individual that dictate the best place to move:
“We have socialized health care.”
“Yeah, well we have lower taxes.”
“We have cooperative housing.”
“We have better education.”
“We have the most accessible borders and lenient immigration laws.”
“We have no extradition treaties.”
Here is a little bit of hot truth for you: every first world country believes itself to be the best country in the world. I assure you, no one is walking around in France going, “Ah, France is a wonderful country. The only thing that would make it better is if we were British.”
And certainly there is not one Italian gazing upon the Colosseum saying, “I mean, it’s okay…but this place is no Luxembourg.”
Even the Canadians think Canada is great.
Here is the difference though, between Americans, Britons, and typical, first-world self-love: audacity.
Imagine the world is a playground. America is the big kid who had that growth spurt two years too early, and is throwing the red dodgeball at all the kids who aren’t even playing. We’re stomping around in our oversized high-tops yelling “America! America!” while bouncing that ball as high as it goes.
We want to be friends with all the other kids. We just haven’t figured out that not everyone likes dodgeball yet. Pretty soon we’ll start a nice game of wall ball or four-square, and start letting all the other kids play with our cool army toys. (But not all of them. We leave the coolest stuff in our room at home.)
England, on the other hand, is the skinny, asthmatic kid gently swaying on the blue, rubber-seated swing. He’s watching the Irish kids toss each other off the jungle gym and shaking his head, feeling genuinely sorry for them, and thinking, “You were so much better under British rule. It was only then we could show you how to be truly civilized.”
And they see the Australians wrestling inside the jungle gym and think the same thing. And see the Americans, and think the same thing. And the Indians. And most of the Africans. And pretty much all of the Islanders, both Atlantic and Pacific.
Maybe American’s are big, fat bullies. But the Brits have rote condescension. We Americans may be in that fourth grade phase where we think that everyone just hates us cause we’re awesome, but no matter how old those Brits get, well, they’re always just going to be a little bit better than you. They’re British.