THE RANDOMIZER

All the times I got laid it was luck. I'm not a player. I know not this "game" you speak of. I only know luck. Let me explain. Statistically speaking, there is always a chance you could get laid. Driving to work, jogging in the park, or even going to Starbucks could be the perfect decision at the perfect moment which results in some skin to skin tango time. Male/female, gay/straight these are merely classifications. I speak for all peoples of the world, no matter their sexual orientation or anatomical consistency. We're all in the sexual line of fire, always.

So....how do we do it? How do we increase our chances? Well. That's the thing. I get the sense that a longer lifespan and increased public outings are the only empirical way to raise our numbers above the sexual Mason-Dixon line. Another, less astute writer might make a joke here about Dixon sounding like dick, but I'm not that kind of writer. I'm the kind of writer who addresses making that joke and then takes the high road. But don't get me started on the cable provider Cox. I got pages and pages on that shit. Knock, knock. Who's there? Cox. HAHAHAHA. Goldmine.

What I'm saying is I'm immature. Really immature. Maybe I'm even immature for writing this article. Maybe a mature writer would just come to grips with his own love life (or lack thereof) and not stoop to such low lengths as to write a cathartic article attempting to make universal his own problem. But low and behold, here I am. Typing on a computer usually reserved for high-speed pornography. Attempting to resolve my own inadequacies through the intellectual stimulation of others. Maybe this article is just a cry for help. Maybe if no one likes it or reads it I'll cut off my Mason Dixon (you know you love it) and just live without Cox. Maybe it'll make me a better person. Instead of esoterically ranting on coitus, maybe I'll channel this energy towards cancer research and poverty eradication. Maybe I'll solve the world's oil crisis. All I had to do was stop thinking about sex for a few seconds and it suddenly hit me like a ton of bricks covered in complex algorithms of ethanol conversion charts. Maybe. Or maybe this is the curse of man. OUR MOST HARD-WIRED INSTINCT IS TO REPRODUCE. Every second that I don't reproduce, my world shrinks a little. The sun isn't as bright and the sky isn't so blue. Every second without sex is a failure. Plain and simple. I have a single job given to me by Mother Nature. I interned in the womb for nine months then I got promoted to an entry level crib position. And for the first seventeen years of my life I couldn't do my job worth shit.

But finally it happened. One day. Out of the blue. Woke up like any other day. Treated everyone the same. Didn't use a pick-up line or anything. Just, I don't know...dumb luck. So what? Since then I've tried to respect women. Tried to do everything right, but i guess that's the point. If I’m gonna get laid, it's probably not in my control. I'm just a pinball bouncing around racking up a few points here and there but invariably slipping between the stoppers and falling through the cracks. Ce la vie.