Inspired by the ePluribus Media article
Tom Monaghan's Pizza Pilgrimage, I looked a little deeper at Monaghan. Well that was a friggin' mistake:
"Monaghan often lists the date of his conception...as his birthday."
-- Wikipedia
Oh for Christ's sake...yuck. Like all good and decent, sexually repressed adults of Western European origin, I find it repulsive to imagine my parents bumping uglies. Really, I'm perfectly content to accept the whole "birthday thing" on faith, so long as we maintain a "don't ask, don't tell" policy. Otherwise, I really can't enjoy my cake.
The implications of knowing the date of your conception, and choosing to celebrate it...eeww.
Eeww, eeww, eeww, eeww, eeww. Crazy f'ing bastard.
"
Woohoo! Today's the 63rd anniversary of when Daddy climbed on Mommy and loosed the volley that turned into me. Just think, one of his blessed little drivers made it all the way to the door (in 30 minutes or less), and wiggled his way right inside."
Brfphlm...ppth.
Sorry, I just kinda threw up into my mouth a little there. For real, unlike making pizza, conception is a tricky business. Having the precise date requires, you know...^shudder^...details.
Now, I've 'lost' a condom or two in my day, and yes, the frenzied, yet oh so delicate search and rescue that follows makes a pretty lasting impression. But I'm assuming Monaghan's parents were equally Catholicized, and he is not the unholy consequence of sperm and ova cavorting about unchaperoned during a contraceptive "all hands on deck."
So that makes me wonder -- often a bad omen -- if perhaps the deed itself was somehow conspicuous, an event so anomolous as to be noteworthy.
For instance, maybe Pappy Monaghan didn't see his wife laying butt-naked on the hardwood floor during an act of corporal mortification, and tripping, accidentally penetrated her when he fell. Now that would be a story worth repeating.
Or was it merely salient by virtue of its rarity? Granted, the day my current record-setting coital drought finally -- f-f-f-finally -- ends, I'm taking a nude victory lap around the block, the flagging remains of my triumph festooned with peonies.
But I'm not married. Yeah, go figure.
Or what if Monaghan's C-Day was posted on the fridge, a conscientiously logged entry to mark a rigidly held, periodically discharged burden, carefully spreading in time to fulfill the desire of an attentive member of God's faithful to dutifully be fruitful and multiply...
Uh, yeah. Sorry for that.
But you know, it really is God's plan that sex, though a filthy and evil hurdle, must be overcome in order to acheive his true goal: over-populating Earth. Because if we all die from starvation and disease and addiction and homicide and war and mental illness and global warming -- in the name of love, of course -- then he doesn't have to do that whole "Book of Revelations" thing.
Seriously, John was like, totally tripping when he wrote that, but then Raphael got all like "dudes, how funny would it be if We stuck John's 'shrooming thing at the end of the Bible, you know, like a hidden track or something" and everyone was like "Yeah! Do it, do it!" and "Paul is dead, Paul is dead!" and "You da man! You da man!" and hindsight being 20/20...mmm, yeah...not such a good call. But c'mon, how I was supposed to know you idiots would take that crap literally?
Did I just start writing as if I was God? Gotta watch that POV. Nevermind, I digress.
What a jackass. How arrogant and supercilious, presuming to list the date of your supposed conception as your birthday. Wanna see what Monaghan really believes in? Stop buying Dominoes Pizza, because I doubt he'd find Job's shoes as accomodating.
And one more thing:
eeww!