The Top 10 Worst Things About Living in Mexico

Now that I've decided to reinvent myself as a lifestyle blogger - after the success of my "21 Reasons Not to Make a Baby" - I figured it was time to crack on with some more lists: and what better way to improve them than by testing them on y'all and integrating all the suggestions and corrections you put forward? (Smart bunch that you are.)

So, here's me next Magnus O'Puss...

THE TOP 10 WORST THINGS ABOUT LIVING IN MEXICO
by Gurnyville O'Dunky

BUT FIRST...A DISCLAIMER

Mexico's awesome. Hardly anyone seems crazy. There's total freedom. The cops and army blokes are chill. People seem mostly happy and content and there's no shouting in the street or drunken louts or barely-contained aggression like there is in England. Plus the weather's great. Plus it's beautiful. Plus the food's lovely and cheap. And there are so many places to go, and such variety, and it's muy tranquilo...and...and...

But, you know, nowhere's perfect...

#1 THE DOG SITUATION

Have you ever walked through a Mexican town at night? If so, you'll most likely have encountered what scientists call "a Mexican Woof Chain" - wherein the first dog's woof stirs the neighbouring dog, which stirs the next and...so on, for the duration of your whole rotten journey, and probably well into the night, as the chain travels back and forth like an endless Mexican Wave.

In short, Mexican dogs bark a lot. And every pinchi casa just HAS to have one (or three, or six). And Mexican's being a most tolerant bunch, nobody seems to mind - when the obvious solution is to exterminate the bloody lot of them.

#2 MEXICAN MUSIC

It's strange to be in Mexico so many years after my first visit and find that the music is still the same: still this godawful cacophony of trumpets and tubas and accordions, all blasting out from distorted, farting speakers never built to handle the volume that's being forced through them; destroying otherwise tranquil sunny Sunday mornings in nature and in beauty; and shaking to pieces ramshackle pickups and buses parked under arroyo bridges while Tecate Light is swilled mere feet away, and all conversation is presumably rendered an impossible nightmare.

Still, to be fair, the hippest young Mexicans detest all this...banda, I believe it's called, and don't partake themselves, so there's perhaps some hope that it'll die out one day.

#3 AMERICANS

Due to geographical proximity, there are a lot of Americans in Mexico.

'Nuff said.

(Note: most of my favorite people are American - see, I even used the incorrect spelling of 'favour' there, in 'honor' of them - but I write this here for the US-hating rest of the world, 'cos I know they like that sort of thing.)

#4 TRYING TO BUY A CAR

Buying a car in Mexico is a bit of a joke: especially if you're from somewhere like the UK, where a decent ten-year-old car can be found for about $500-1000, and something a bit older that still runs fine for as little as fifty quid.

Not quite the same in Mexico: where 20-year-old cars sell for up to two thousand bucks; where people ask a thousand dollars for bashed-up rustbuckets with half the bits missing; and where the chance of finding one with its paperwork in order - ie, one that doesn't have the licence plates from some other car and isn't "debe-ing cinco años de revistas" - is a minefield in itself.

One of the most useful things I've learned: the ubiquitous "detalles esticos" doesn't mean "a few aesthetic details" as you or I would take it (eg, a small scratch somewhere, now retouched; or perhaps the remnants of a coffee stain on one of the seats) - no, it actually means something like: all the mirrors are broken; the windshield's cracked; the brakes don't work; none of the electrics are functioning; some of the panels are dented; the headlights are hanging loose; and the muffler's tied on with a shoelace, and has a hole in it temporarily covered over with a sock.

To suggest that these things might have been mentioned in the advert, however, is usually met with bemusement - just as asking how many miles the car has. Seriously, I've asked that question many times - it's one of the most important factors when considering buying a car back home - but here it seems a non-issue. People don't know, and when you ask them to check, they can't be bothered, or ask you why on earth you'd want to know, just buy it, solo tiene detalles esteticos, etc.

On the bright side though: cars don't actually cost anything anyway, other than the difference between what one pays for it and what one sells it for (ie, depreciation) - which is a situation perhaps improved in Mexico, given that you can bash your car around a bit, and have parts drop off, and it'll still maintain most of its value, whereas in England, once it's had one little smash, or failed its MOT, it basically has no resale value at all, other than as scrap.

Wahey! One-nil Mexico.

#5 IT'S REALLY HARD TO BUY SHOES

Good luck finding a decent pair of runners if you have a normal-sized pair of feet like mine (UK 11, US 12) - Mexican men are so generally tiny and small-footed hardly anyone stocks anything beyond a size 10.

Same thing for a normal-sized pair of jeans - 32 waist, 34 leg - or a hat to fit a normal-sized head (61 cm).

Make sure you bring plenty with you (if you're a normal-sized man, like me - and especially if you're a giant, like Alex or Pete).

#6 DISHONESTY

One of the most interesting aspects of Mexican culture is the ease with which many people seem to lie: as though it hardly means anything to them at all, and is just a way of life.

The first inkling you might have that this is going on is when asking for directions - as we all know, no one will say, "I don't know", but will confidently wave some arms and tell you "para ya" or "derecho" - and off you go, in completely the wrong direction, as you sweatily discover twenty minutes later.

We wonder about this and we realise: ah, it's because people want to be nice, and they want to give us what we want - directions - and they would feel bad if they let us down.

It's not really lying, we tell ourselves, it's just a slightly misguided attempt at kindness. Saying "I don't know" would of course be more useful, but we can see where they're coming from.

Later on, after staying somewhere long enough, and experiencing more extreme and overt examples of lying, one comes to learn that dishonesty in Mexico is not the same as dishonesty in England. It's not something that people seem to agonise over; that keeps them awake at night; that haunts their conscience. Nor is it something that appears to completely destroy trust, or would be expected to do so. It really appears to flow as naturally as water, and to be no big deal - even when it completely is: when it involves jobs and relationships and money and feelings, for example.

But, like I say, just a different way of being.

#7 THE GARBAGE SITUATION

This isn't one that bothers me particularly, but I know it bothers others, so I'll put it here: and that's the sight of beer bottles and bean cans and old buckets and piles of plastic being strewn around the desert and countryside, thrown out of car windows, dumped willy-nilly.

There is a lot of garbage in Mexico, and it is a shame and uglyfying - but, for me, it has mitigating circumstances.

Number one: the way Mexico deals with its garbage is probably a little bit behind other parts of the world, but is progressing, so I'd say: give it time. When I first came to Mexico signs in buses said things like, "don't be a pig, throw your garbage out the window" - and they don't say that anymore. Now we find at least some attempts to recycle; and lots of signs saying, "no tire la basura"; and a growing number of people who wouldn't dream of chucking their empty coke bottle into a bush.

Things are moving. It's not Germany. But then, not many places are.

Number two: you think people don't throw garbage in your countries? I've walked along American highways and picked up sacks' worth of discarded beer cans and plastic bottles. I've seen Canadian hot springs littered with...well, beer cans and bottles (I can't think of anything else). And if you really want to see garbage...check out an English park at the end of a roasting summer's day - particularly one close to a university (the best and brightest, remember).

A diaper and a couple of plastic cups after a twenty-family hot springs weekend? It don't even compare.

Number three: there are worse types of garbage in the world. Perhaps it's a bit crappy that little dirt-scrabble Mexican villages just pile it by the side of the road and burn it - car tires, refrigerators, unburnables and all - but one thing we don't really find in Mexico is the kind of 'human garbage' that we see in our countries. And not that I mean "humans that ARE garbage", but humans that the rest of us have tossed away, discarded, and treated like trash.

For examples of this, see: downtown Vancouver; Los Angeles (something like 40,000 homeless people there alone); San Francisco's civic centre; and a thousand other places besides.

For me, a few beer cans in a bit of desert scraggle while familes interact happily doesn't really compare to the horror of our first-world homelessness and mental illness apocalypse.

#8 MEXICAN WOMEN

There are four main problems with Mexican women: the first is that there are a really disproportionately high number of lovely and attractive ones - even in a dusty pueblito of fifty people you'll generally find at least one who could be a model - and that can be mighty distracting; it's much better somewhere like England (London aside) where one rarely encounters that issue.

The second problem with Mexican women is that they barely seem to notice the white guy, even when you'd swear blind the appearance of such a fellow would at least cause a second glance. But it doesn't. And that's sad.

The third problem is that, traditionally, they don't take the initiative - and that's not good for those of us whose idea of making a move on a woman is to do little more than ever-so subtly create a space for her to make a move on him.

The fourth problem is that most of them don't speak fluent English, or have an intimate knowledge of the last thirty years of British comedy - but I suppose that's understandable.

And, in any case, despite these issues, the positives far outweigh the negatives. It's just a shame there appears so little interest in "La Mexicana" to work on said shortcomings.

But, as mentioned elsewhere, perhaps we can give it time, and all creases will be ironed out in due course.

>>> 

That's it. I thought there'd be more, but I could only think of 8. Indeed, it might be argued that some of them are hardly problems at all - though that's an issue for debate.

So what do you think? Have me missed anything? Do you agree with our list? Or do you think we've got it all wrong?

Write us an email at craplists@buzzfeed.com and let us know your thoughts.

Cheers! :)

(Not) On The Road Pt 5

Ain't life grand?
This self-styled
"Man Who Follows His Dreams"
After all his thinking about where to go next
On the verge of buying a ticket to
Rainy old Manchester, England
To land there next Wednesday
(A quick check on the weather shows that
It is, indeed
Raining)
Sleeps in his San Miguel hostel bed
And dreams vividly of a country
A million miles from his thoughts
And wakes to hear the words
"Go X"
("X" being the compass direction
To that place)
And a quick perusal of plane tickets
Shows that I can make it
Within a week
For five pesos less than I have in my bank account
(I also have about enough cash
For a week)
So...
What's a boy to do?
Well -
This boy
Will let it brew
See what the signs say
Maybe sleep on it a couple more nights
And...
Giggle about the whole thing
And the possibilities
And -
Probably still go to Manchester anyway ;)

On The Road Pt 4

Back in San Miguel de Allende
After my trip out into the desert
A need to rest
Wash my stinky clothes
Get some sleep
And write myself
Into the future
So...

1.

The last thing I posted
Was something about a
Thought/realisation I had
Sitting in the back of a pickup
Exiting Las Margaritas
That I said was difficult
To put into words
When actually...
It probably isn't
Especially if I allow myself to stumble over it
Begin by mumbling how it was
Something about
Experience
Memory
And transformation
Something about how
In the seeking of experience
We often create a memory
And memory can create attachment
For we may look back
Want it again
Even come to believe
It meant something that it didn't really
Whereas what we really seek
(Probably)
Is transformation
And experience
No matter how profound
Doesn't necessarily guarantee that
Though it may give the illusion
That transformation has taken place
Meanwhile
The question is
"Can we have transformation
Without experience?"
And
In the moment
I believed that the answer was
"Yes"
And that made me smile
And feel good
And felt like something of a reward
For turning my back on peyote
An unexpected train of thought
Out of the blue
Which I imagine makes little sense to others
But perhaps means something
Good

2.

Then I was in Real de Catorce
Talking about how cold it was
And how it didn't match my expectations
In any way whatsoever
Though...
It did grow on me
After a good night's sleep
Snuggled under blankets
(My first real bed
All to myself
In something like six months)
Despite profuse
Dogs
Donkeys
Thunder
And dreams
(And the hotel running out of
Water and electricity)
And I thought maybe I could stay a bit longer
(But do what?)
And instead decided to walk down the back road
Down the mad mountain
That people generally only do in
Massively suspensionised
Vintage jeeps
It's so crazy and bumpy
But here I go
On my two feet
With my wheely case
(Sometimes on my shoulder
When the rocks get too bad)
And it's pretty lovely
And perhaps bonkers
(It's about 11 km
Back to the highway)
But I don't care about that
Beats the alternative
And, in any case
After about half an hour
A police pickup comes bouncing down the hill
Out goes my thumb
And in the back I jump
Four cops in the front
Two in the bed with me
And it's lovely

3.

From there
(Estacion Wadley)
I'm wondering what to do next
Head on back to San Miguel de Allende?
Head north, and break into Texas
Now only six hours away?
Or return to Las Margaritas?
Where an Irish anthropologist
Has expressed an interest in buying my phone
(He's lost his
Needs one
Can't get one within a four hour bus journey)
And, of course
Where the peyote dwells
But -
First things first
I'm hungry
And thirsty
And need to take care of that
In a little roadside shack
Where the kindly woman
Whips me up something non-meaty and good
(And only ten pesos!)
(Forty British pence!)
And while I'm sitting there
A guy in a pickup
Asks me if I want a ride to
Las Margaritas
And I figure that's that decision
Taken care of
And off we go
Back to the desert
Infinitely better than my first
Frustrating walk down that road
And an entirely different feeling
Than two days before

4.

I think going to Real de Catorce
Has shifted something
Certainly, my first time in Las Margaritas
I'd been thinking of that place a lot
Perhaps as a better place
And therefore lacked a bit of focus
But now that's done
Necessarily so
And things have changed

5.

I find the Irish guy
And things have changed for him too
He'd been in a bad space
Head-wise
The first time I'd met him
But I guess he'd had a chance
To get it off his chest
(He'd said he was on the verge of leaving
Despite having six months left
On his project)
And now he was all good
And bought my phone
And things being more expensive here
Despite it not working quite as well as when I bought it
Back in the UK a year ago
He gave me more than I paid for it
(I did sell him it for less
Than he initially offered, though)
And that's a good bit of business
In anyone's book
Plus
It frees me from my phone
Stops my mind
From wanting to
Take pictures
Run a finger across a screen
Listen to things rather than think
And be ever on the lookout for a wifi connection
Which are all good things
When you're on the road
And trying to be in the flow
(For the most part...)

6.

While chatting with him
Things start happening in the village
Families are fiesta-ing
People are dressing in their finest cowboy outfits
Organising chaotic horse races
Pickup truck sound systems are blaring
Tecate Light is being consumed
A film crew is trying to make a movie
And a whole bunch of
Alcoholics Anonymous
Evangelical Christians
Are preparing to go into the desert
Eat some peyote
And pray to Jesus
(An interesting blend)
Plus other stuff;
In a nutshell
It's a whole bunch of cultural experience
But
Me being me
Especially now the beer is flowing
I think I'd rather be off on my own
Somewhere quiet
Digging nature
I find that interesting
And find I feel
Zero qualms and regrets
About leaving such
Chances for observing others
(And future stories)
Behind

7.

I walk to the nice camping spot
But others are there
And so I go further
A couple of miles from the pueblito
Totally alone
Then I take a little hike into the emptiness
Charging through brush and spikes
Find myself seemingly on some mission
And come fairly pronto
To a cute little peyote
Sitting there looking at me
It's a curious moment...
The way one can walk
For hours
In this desert
On the hunt
And find nothing
And yet...
Seemingly I've been magnetised to it
And as I kneel down and say hello
Totally opposite to before
I get a
"Yes"
And decide to go for it
Get out my spoon
Slice it out the ground
Brush off the dirt
Pop it in my mouth
Chew
And swallow

8.

One, of course
Won't be enough
Will I find more?
Well...
Suddenly
It's like I can see them from
Miles away
I walk straight up to
One after another
And ask the question
And six out of ten say
"Sure
Go ahead
Eat me"
And I do

9.

It's almost sunset
I go back to my tent
Wonder what we're in for
Notice a calming of thought
A nice sense of focus
An ability to be still
Those things feel good
But the rest of it...
The rest of it is kind of shitty
Nothing much happens
Save a lack of sleep
A queasy feeling in my gut, under my skin
And a sense of tediousness
With the whole thing 'cos
If nothing's going to happen
Why do I have to stay awake all night
Feeling yucky?
"It's just a drug"
I think to myself
"And a fairly rubbish one at that"
I'm pretty confrontational with the peyote
Tell it
"You're not as good as mushrooms
Not even as good as LSD"
Tell it
"You know what?
You're beneath me
There's nothing you can do for me"
And conclude
Nothing's happening 'cos
I already walked through the mescaline door
Two years ago
With San Pedro
That those lessons
That expansion
Has already taken place
It doesn't surprise me
It's happened before
With iboga
(The stone dropped in the lake
Makes much less of an impact
Then the stone dropped in
The glass)
And
It's all just a bit annoying
The sleepless night
The queasiness
The sense of having ingested
A toxin
A drug
And yet...
Weirdly
My solution to the situation
Is to eat even more
A wondering that
Maybe I just haven't had enough
And if I could have walked straight
I would have got some
But I couldn't
So I just laid there
Till morning
And waited it out
As best I could

10.

Also
I'm not surprised by any of this
I've had my reservations and doubts
Sparked mainly by
The kind of people who kept telling me it was good
Most of whom did so
With a cigarette in one hand
And a Tecate Light in the other
Not the kind of vibe I aspire to
And
A confusion in my brain
That if they've truly tapped into something
"Spiritual and magical"
Why are they still doing such base, low vibration things?
I guess the answer is simple:
They haven't
(Though, it has to be said
A few I met who had partaken
I liked a lot
And respected
And lived lives
I admired greatly)
But still...

11.

Now
Though I say "nothing happened"
That wasn't quite right
For in there among the silliness of having
Made myself ill
There were also some interesting thoughts:
The first one being
How entirely clear it was that
The peyote wasn't saying
"Eat me"
Or, a few days before
Telling me not to
That was just me
Projecting onto it
Inventing the whole thing
And that made me think about all the other things
I might be projecting
Onto life, and onto others
And as I've pondered before
I think it's pretty all-encompassing
And something useful to consider
And also a little bit scary
Because
In a nutshell
Probably whenever I think someone is thinking something
It's most likely me that's actually thinking it
And that's just scratching the surface...

12.

I also thought that my entire life seemed to simply be
The having of ideas
And the living them out
Which also seemed kind of tedious
And yawnsome
And I thought
"There really has to be something
Beyond that -
But...
OMG
What if there isn't?"

13.

If there were other things
I can't quite remember them now
And let me say again:
It was predominantly
Tedious
Annoying
Laughable
- Such a cliché!
The white guy in the desert
In the middle of the night
Chomping on cactus
And trying to find something
(It didn't do Jim Morrison much good) -
And a bit of an embarrassing let down
To have done that to myself
When turning my back on it
Had felt so pure and good
And yet...

14.

The next day
Feeling better with the rising sun
I went for a long walk in the desert
(A couple of hours;
Found nothing)
And then headed back to a spot
I'd been at a few days previously
Where I knew there were plenty
And figured:
Since we're here
We might as well go for it
And if I regret doing it
As long as I don't permanently damage myself
I'll probably regret it less
Than the next time I meet another person
Who tells me they ate peyote
And had all these wonderful things happen
And I'm there thinking
"Damn, I want wonderful things too
I really shoulda done that"
(But now several thousand miles away)
So...
I pick about 18-20 big buttons
A good kilo or so of cactus
Plenty more than is supposed to be necessary
(But that old theory
That I always need more
Due to all that meditation and vision questing)
(As well as the rest of it)
And I spend most of the afternoon
Chopping it down
Softening it up
Trying to render it more palatable
(Nasty tasting thing!)
Often mostly thinking
Probably I won't eat it
Would like to turn my back on it again
But might as well be ready
Just in case...
And then a bit before sunset
A Huichol guy turns up
With a couple from San Luis
And he gives me this smile
And I think
You know what?
I like his vibe
Maybe there is something in this after all
And that's the clincher
And so off I go
Back once more into the desert
And
With a bottle of apple juice
And a bunch of water
Manage to drink the
Whole rotten mess
A kilo of peyote
And that's gotta be enough
To send pretty much anyone
Into the zone
Right?

15.

Guess what?
Nothing happens
Even less than the day before
Just the queasiness
The inability to sleep
(Though not so bad)
The discomfort in my skin
And the annoyance of having this
Toxicity
In my body
And having to wait it out
But...
At least we did it
And will never wonder
What might have been

16.

I know why this happened
Or, at least
I have my theory
Thing is
With these things
What we're actually feeling
When it's so powerful and overwhelming
Are the stretch marks
The gap between where we are
And where they take you to
(However temporary)
When we start off with a small mind...
The gap is big
The stretching intense
And the experience strong
But when the mind, by whatever means
Has already been expanded
The gap is small
Or non-existent
And the stretching feels like nothing
May not take place at all
And that's a good thing
Unless one wants an experience
In which case it's not
But as I said in the beginning...
It's transformation that's where it's at
Not necessarily experience

17.

So that was that
Another annoying night in my tent
Tolerating queasiness
And waiting for it to wear off
Made a little extra annoying
By the San Luis couple
On their own peyote trip
Blasting out really terrible loud music
In the middle of the night
To my incredulation
And
Eventually
I go over there and see them
And there they are
Sitting next to the pickup
Drinking Tecate Light
And looking kind of spaced
And there's the Huichol guy
In the eternal rock-like pose of the Indian
Perfectly vacant
Endlessly patient
Tolerating everything
Even things that are complete shit
Like that awful music
And this couple
And their beers

18.

In the morning
After I get my legs back
I pack up camp
Go see the Irish guy
And tell him what happened
He reckons it's pretty unprecedented
For someone to eat a kilo of peyote
And feel next to nothing
But I tell him my theory
(Always awkward
Aware that it sounds like
Blowing one's own trumpet
And that's not allowed)
(Though actually just objective
If you think about it)
But I think he kind of gets it
And after we've chatted a few hours
Drank some tea
Put some eggs and corn in my body
He runs me on his bike back to
Dusty old
Wadley
(He tells me travellers love that place -
God only knows why)
And I set off with my thumb once again
Heading south
For what else is there to do?
I'm dirty
I need a shower
Want a bed
Have hardly anything left in the way of clothing
Having somehow accidentally given away (or lost)
All but three of my t-shirts
And my one pair of jeans
Is beginning to fall to pieces
As is my backpack
And everything else
It's all feeling like the end of something
A limping home
My mind often harking back to
When this whole journey began
Four and a half years ago
With that vision of Greece
And the subsequent abandoning of
My "normal life"
That followed
And -
Now tired
Still a little queasy
Everything stinking
My shoes about done
But unable to find a pair in my size
In the whole of Mexico
(Same for jeans
Same for a hat)
Dragging that wheely case
Through the dust, over stones
And the weird thought of England
Ever-growing in my brain
These past few weeks
After three-quarters of a year
Of not thinking about it at all
Is this the end of the road?
Am I really going "home"?
(As I keep singing in my head
For whatever reason
"It's all right
And it's coming on
We've got to get right back to where we
Started from")
But where is home?
Where did we start from?
And what's in England for me?
(A little frightened because of
How grim it was
The last time I was there)
(Though perhaps I shouldn't have been there...)
And then -
Could it not be another place
That I started from?
The US?
Baja?
Which always feels like home too
I dunno...
I've got some figuring out to do
These thoughts are becoming all-consuming
But...
It also feels pretty weird
To think that I could be walking down English streets
Within a few days

19.

PS
You don't have to worry about giving me advice
(Unless it's practical, and useful)
This writing is just
The expression
The clearing of the pipes
The message to the Universe
Which enables the answer
To arrive
The magic that occurs
When I type it all out
And stand up from the keyboard
A new man
Empty and refreshed
And walk into the future
Unknown

20.

PPS
I feel bad about the phrases
"Dirt-scrabble Injun"
And
"Plant medicine crap"
And thought about them a lot
While I was off in the desert
I guess I just like being irreverant sometimes
And have inherited that glorious British tendency
Of antipedestalisationism
Which, when you think about it
Is just the Universe seeking balance
(I'm being tongue-in-cheek here)
And, in effect,
A metaphysical version of
One of the Laws of Thermodynamics
(I'm not smart enough to know which one)
So...
Yeah
I'll edit them out at some point
As well as everything else I've ever written
That was even slightly objectionable
And be more careful in the future
Unless I feel like being otherwise
(wink)

21.

In a nutshell:
Done
Head emptied
Words pasted here
For your perusal
Misunderstanding
Indifference
Head-nodding agreement
I guess now it's time
To head out into the San Miguel sun
Pick up my laundry
Wear something that doesn't stink
Grab a bite to eat
(Possibly some Ritz crackers and Philadelphia
My current "dirty treat" of choice)
And figure out what
The near future will bring
Which is hopefully something that
Doesn't suck balls
Nor something less good
Than living in this beautiful city
And locking myself in a little room
And typing till I can type no more
In between visits to
Groovy, gruesome churches
Where the Jesuses wear wigs
Bleed and look pained
And I giggle thinking of how
I spend my vacation
Sitting under Marys
Shedding attachment
And feeling happy
Rather than the restaurants and dancing
Of other people's holidays
Oddball that I am

22.

Oh!
And I rode a freight train
A Mexican freight!
It was only for like ten seconds
(Was going the wrong way)
But still...

23.

That's all. :)

On The Road Pt 3

Now here I am
In Las Margaritas
Cuddled up in
My morning tent
Last night was mad
A sudden sunset urge
To go find some peyote
But all I found
Was a massive lightning storm
Some rain
And the experience of
Wandering in the dark desert
Getting wet
And seeing lightning go
Ka-boom!
Right in my face
(One time I start the count
Got to "Missi-"
And then the thunder crashed
I guess that meant it was half a mile away
And forked too
And kind of frightening
In all that open desert)
In any case
I make it to my tent
Find enough dry things to sleep
And now I wonder...
I'm thinking about England lots
After basically forgetting it
Most of the past nine months
Can't decide about eating peyote
Sometimes yes, sometimes no
Skeptical about all this "plant medicine" crap
About dust-scrabble Injuns
And the peyote so cute anyways
Not really sure I can cut em up
And sink my fangs into em
But...
If they want it
If Spirit wants it
I guess we will

...

(Same day, 7.07pm)

I went off in the morning
Left my things out to dry in the sun
Walked half an hour into the desert
And found a bunch of peyote
Maybe 15 good-sized buttons
Probably enough to do the job
I sat on my blanket
Talked to it
Talked to the desert
Tried to feel the right way
And...
There was no "yes"
No compelling urge
And even thinking about cutting one
Filled me with revulsion
The idea of beheading such a cute small thing...
It'd be like slicing up a kitten
So I left it
Packed up my stuff
Departed strange Las Margaritas
And got back on the road
And a couple of easy rides later
I was in high mountain Real de Catorce
(About 2800 metres, I'm told)
Not quite what I expected...
I'd been thinking little backwater oasis
Some peaced out wise gringoes
Maybe a few genuine mystics
And perhaps even a better peyote situation
But actually it's just
Rubble and Mexican tourists
Shivering in the rain
Stumbling along cobbled streets
Past tat and hoodies
Though the church is groovy
With flashing lights around the giant Jesus
And a sound system playing a churchy version
(Still in English)
Of that
"Everybody's Gotta Learn Sometimes"
Song
While an old woman shouts out her prayers
And breaks into hymns
And everything's all colourful and gory
It's an odd little place
I'll stay the night
I'll ponder what to do next
Whether to return to Las Margaritas
Or maybe even awesome San Miguel de Allende
Or - shock horror! -
Investigate this growing feeling to
Get on a plane to England
(But what the hell would I do there?)
(And, anyways
That feeling don't necessarily mean
What I might think it means
Sometimes
Often
It just means I'm ready for the new thing
The new unknown thing
Whatever that might be)
(Truly "giving up")
So
That's where we're at
Typing with thumbs
On a phone I almost sold yesterday
(To disconnect)
And sitting after four gorditas
And an earlier nap
In my hundred peso hotel
And thinking still about that nice thought/realisation I had
When saliring from peyote
Which seemed sort of incredible
But I can't quite put into words

On The Road Pt 2

It's early in my tent
Still dark outside
The birds tweeting
And from somewhere in the distance
The rumble and horn of a
Mexican freight train
I'm in a town called Venado
Somewhere up in the desert
Not far now from
Legendary Catorce
From the peyote fields and the Huichol -
It's hard to comprehend
I only left San Miguel yesterday
And in the afternoon at that
Took a bus to San Felipe
Dug Hidalgo passing through
Told myself "I love Mexico" many times
And marvelled at brown skinned beauties
Then I'm on the highway
Back on the blessed asphalt
Standing in random desert
Thumb out
Smiling
Ah, it's been a while
The random white man
Even more random this time
Due to his airplane wheely case
But you know what?
It works
Better than backpack
Save for hiking, maybe
And -
Hup! Hup!
A ride within two minutes
A good guy in a pickup
Driving all the way to San Luis Potosí
Chats about seeing England vs Brazil in 1970
Still plays soccer in his sixties
(They have an over-60s league
In SLP
Sixteen teams
Nothing like that in England)
(God, I love Mexico)
Then I have mad times by the periferico
Everybody telling me to go the other way
Nobody stopping
No buses passing
Saved, weirdly, by a taxi driver who's
Only trying to swindle me
Not knowing who he's dealing with
(Mr Frugality, 1997)
And who drops me by the tracks in a weird spot
No longer on the highway
Oh, for a passing train!
To speed me north
Throw the suitcase up there
Shoot y'all a video
Whizzing through the desert
Shouting commentary over roar of thunder
Smile as wide as the tracks
But...
No hay tren
Y no quiero to wait for one
So -
A fully-loaded pickup stops
The nice man in it laughs
Says he'll take me where I need to go
Even though it's the wrong way for him
Even though the front seat's full
Even though it means his retarded brother (there's a wife too)
Will have to jump in the back
And sit on what seems to be
Sewage slop and rotting garbage
In massive buckets -
I can't have that
Can't even do it myself
And anyway
Don't want him going out of his way
So instead we just have a bit of fun
He speaks some English
He makes everything feel good
And on I go
Following the tracks
Somewhere in giant
San Luis Potosi
Back to the road
Back to the roar of traffic
But - by Gad!
The taxi driver has done his job
I get a ride
All the way to where there's a bus
A ten peso bus that
Exits town
Goes way further than I thought
Delivers me right to the junction I need
By some town called Mexquitic
And happy thumbs are once more employed
And soon enough another great guy
Scoops me up
Bounces me down the road
Simplifies his Spanish
And asks me things like:
"What's the most important thing in your life?"
To which I shudder
Wonder if I'm supposed to say "la familia"
But instead talk about
Writing
Good people
Nature
Travel
To which he replies:
"To know oneself"
And I get it
And say
Actually, the most important thing in my life right now
Is to feel my connection with Spirit
And do what it bids me to do
I wonder why I don't say that sort of thing more often
Just as I've been wondering why I generally
Don't let on what I'm actually doing
And pretend I'm doing something else
That's about it
He brings me to this park
And I sleep warm and good
And now it's 7.15
And light
And time to go once more
To about the last place I can think of
And see what's there...

On The Road Pt 1

It's strange to leave Baja
Baja so much my home
And the time on the Pacific side
Initially weird
Wondering how the hell I'll fill a week
Turns out groovy
One newish friend
One really new friend
And I don't want to leave
Tremble a little
All those thoughts about
Just hopping over to the mainland
And hitching to unknown places
On whims
Suddenly seems a bit mad and pointless
But I've got my ticket
And get underway
Perhaps randomly deciding to thumb it
To the airport
Even though I've had bad luck out of Pescadero before
And the clock is ticking
Three hours to make the plane
And at least a two hour journey by bus
I guess I'm tempting fate
Daring it to get me there
While a certain part of me hopes I'll miss it
(Just like Greece
Four years ago
And we all know how that turned out)
(So I don't take that part
Too seriously)
But I needn't have worried
For, within ten minutes
A well good young guy
Speeds me all the way to La Paz
And talks coincidentally and unbidden
About eating peyote
In Real de Catorce
And he's so nice and lovely
He even offers to take me
All the way to the airport
Even though it's the wrong way for him
And he's supposed to be working
But he's done enough
And I'm so early
I can't have that
So I stop off for food
One last visit to a Baja Soriana
And then trundle along the highway
With my wheely suitcase
(There's no bus, of course
That would make too much sense)
And next thing I know
I'm bound for Mexico City
Two complementary packets of peanuts on the plane
And the guy next to me
Gives me one of his too
So I'm pretty stoked by that
As we fly up and over the coast
And I look down on precious Baja arroyos
And beaches
And already start to miss them
And to miss the ease of life at the hot springs
How good it is
Already brought home by some time on the salty side
No agua fresco for
Bathing in
For drinking
For nightly soaks
For always being clean
The simplicity of life
In one pair of shorts
No shoes required
Everything right there
Further emphasized by this
Trip to the city
Now I need
Showers
Laundry
Bottled water
A change of clothes
And somewhere to sleep
Which is my first challenge
And I don't do so well
I'm so out of practice with
City life
Ending up weirdly
- It's a longer story
Than I've got time to tell -
In
San Pedro de los Pinos
(A fair-to-middlin'
Mexico City district)
At midnight
With no real idea what I'm doing
A bit worried being on those dark Mexico City streets
With my wheely case
And my gringo tourist skin
But I needn't have been:
I find an odd little homemade shrine
To the Virgin Mary
With flashing lights
And a power point for phone
And sit there until 3am
Strangely inspired
To write and write and write
Fourteen pages, by hand
A whole load of
Recollections and reflections
Puzzlements and regrets
A bunch of feelings, even, too
And then when done
I walk
(And wheel)
Till I find a playground
(Parque de Miraflores)
Put up my tent
Under a children's slide
Sleep a couple of fitful hours
And in the morning
Book a "travel bureau car"
(Blablacar)
To Santiago de Queretaro
And am back on the road
Zooming through beautiful Mexico
Digging the hills and green
Different to Baja
Lovely, nonetheless
And from there,
A bus to San Miguel de Allende
Eight years after I first feel to visit it
And
I love it
It's perhaps the most picturesque city
I've ever been in
I wander the streets
I feel inspired to write
I stay four happy days
I think maybe I should live there

21 Reasons Not to Have Children

As I’m sitting in El Templo de Santa Maria enjoying a rather nice meditation, I start to think about taboos, and about the next great taboo, now that sex – at least in my part of the world – has been so thoroughly explored, expressed, and exposed: now that men and women appear on dating shows shamelessly naked and choose prospective partners based on the way their genitals look (Naked Attraction, 2016); now that Russell Brand jovially lectures audiences of thousands – including his very own mother – on the joys of rimming and being rimmed (Messiah Complex, 2014); and now that anal is so passe as to be almost vanilla, and even such staid fellows as Ed Milliband and Pope Jean-Paul II will freely admit to liking a finger up their bum (citation needed).

So what possible taboo could we come up against next? What’s left, in this age of youporn, Tinder, celebrity dogging shows, and Ryan Giggs?

Well, anyone who’s spent any proper time around me the last few years – or, indeed (may I modestly say) dug my incredible collection of thoughtful, multi-layered, and highly cerebral memes – will know where this is going…

(This is where it’s a good idea for anyone but the seriously twisted to turn back.)

Kids.

Kids, and the notion that making more of them is a seriously bad idea.

Kids as the root cause of all the world’s problems.

Kids as little more than a giant pain in the arse.

I know, I know: what kind of sick, heartless fuck could even dare suggest such a thing?

I guess a little qualifying is in order: a little assurance that I’ve not suddenly gone all eugenic Nazi – a Scrooge, a King Herod, a Pol Pot, all rolled into one – and am still the nice jolly guy you met in real life; who juggled your wee ones on his knee; who took them for ice cream and walkies; who shunned boring old adult company at that party to bounce and roll with them for two hours on that trampoline; who would, in a nutshell, do anything for them, should the need arise, and encourage and support them – and likewise always aim to do nothing to hurt, hinder, or slight them, in even the most trivial of ways.

You know all this, if you know me at all. But still…

(Really. Seriously. Turn off now and go do something useful instead…)

Now…I wasn’t always anti-procreation: in fact, up until about 2 or 3 years ago I was pretty gung ho for the making of a little version of myself, thinking that it would be good for me; that it may be the best way to learn, experience, and express love and selflessness – which some part of me believes is what life is actually about – and that it was my next logical step. In my own haphazard way, I sought to move towards it – naturally, there are steps to be taken, such as finding a partner – and, in doing so, I got to really feel my deepest truths of the issue…

But first of all, some more qualifiers. A moment to recognize that I grew up in a society and a time that didn’t particularly appear to value children, nor to think too deeply about the creation of them (how many of generation, I wonder – my coal-mining village Yorkshire generation – found themselves coming into existence because of a shag behind some pub bins? Because their blottoed mother wanted a knee trembler before her kebab? Because, in short, humans like sex, and when they get drunk, they like it even more, and even less consciously?)

Likewise, I must also recognize that my own existence, parentage, upbringing, and societal conditioning seems to have been expressly suited to creating a mind that would find little merit in family life (mum impregnated at sixteen on her own al fresco post-pub knee trembler, biodad goes motorbiking to Morocco and mum finds inadequate replacement father some months later (arm-wrestling in another pub), and they have a mostly awful relationship which ends in divorce six years later).

Also: there was this one time – not at band camp – when a friend and I drank a ludicrous amount of liquefied San Pedro cactus – ie, tripped on mescaline – and, among many beautiful, inspiring experiences, had the following exchange:

Friend: Dude. Are you okay?

Me: I’m okay. Are you okay? Not cold?

(We would check in with one another every hour or so; we were in the woods maybe twenty feet apart.)

Friend: I’m good. Dude…I just lived and died a thousand times.
Me: Really? Wow. I just had the exact same experience.

So that was neat: simultaneous far-out experience, despite the also very individual nature of our journeys. And true also: I really did feel like I’d lived and died a thousand times. That I would be born as a female, say, and go through her whole entire life, live every minute of it and then grow old and wither away and die – and then back I’d be as some Chinese or Arab baby, later to live a whole Chinese or Arab life, and also die a Chinese or Arab death; and on, and on, and on…

It may not have been a thousand lives, but it was quite possibly several hundred of them; and when I say I re-lived the WHOLE DAMN THING, I absolutely mean it (time, of course, is different, when you’ve consumed about 2 lbs of hallucinogenic cactus).

Later on, we compared more detailed notes, and though there were some incredibly striking similarities throughout the 10-hour journey, there were some notable differences too…

My friend told me experiencing all those other lives (past lives?) and then returning to this one gave him a feeling of incredible gratitude, not just for his own life, but for the lives and presence of his family, his wife and two kids.

Me, on the other hand…

I felt exhausted by it all: by all that being born, and living, and dying.

I got a real strong sense of what it meant, in Buddhist terms, to be on, and to want to escape, “the wheel of life, death, and rebirth.”

It was enough. Done. Too much.

I didn’t want anymore: not just for me, but for anyone – or, at least, for anyone whose existence I might have a say in.

All that living. All those lives. And yet…never knowing, never figuring out…

It seemed so clear. Made perfect, awful sense. And yet…

This seems like a good place to introduce one point of the argument against the making of further human beings: that of the apparent lack of interest – nay, abhoration, even – in doing so by the most enlightened among us. And who are the most enlightened? Well, usually I put forward those such as Ammachi, Ramana Maharshi, possibly Buddha (though it’s difficult to know anything for sure about Buddha; and, in any case, he did actually make a baby, albeit in his pre-awakening, ignorant days); and I suppose there are plenty who would want to throw Jesus into the hat (I hesitate to do likewise, given the possibility that he was perhaps merely siddhi yogi “intoxicated by the spirit”, in the manner of Al-Hallaj – though since he supports my argument, perhaps I should (wink wink)).

Naturally, if I haven’t already, this is where I lose you. But: you know full well by now how my mind works, and what it dwells on. And: we can hardly tackle a possible “next great taboo” without rubbing a few people up the wrong way, can we? ;)

Oh, and didn’t I tell you to stop reading aaaaaages ago? Lol

So the supposed best among us don’t do it – the list of saints and mystics who procreate not is pretty extensive (and since those that do don’t confirm my bias, they can be safely ignored) – and now, having looked at that, and agreed with it (as I’m sure you have), I suppose that then begs the question, who does?

(Here, by the way, is where, were I a stand-up comedian of the standing of someone like Stewart Lee, I would make it plainly clear – through the employment of facial expressions, timing, tone of voice, etc – that I was being ironic and purposefully obnoxious in order to: 1) parody the opinions of other people; 2) make the audience laugh; and 3) still get to express what I actually think without being chased out the building by an angry mob and burned at the stake.

Alas, because, I’m writing this in a church while on holiday in Mexico, a little before closing time, I’m not really able to edit it or dress it up with genuine, intelligent humour, therefore rendering both it and myself a little less controversial, so…could you please do that bit yourself? Ie, just IMAGINE the edge taken off with some clever jokes, a bit of self-deprecation, etc – all delivered by a likeable pudgy face – and I think you’ll find that makes it infinitely more palatable and hardly objectionable at all, and –)

It’s getting a bit long, isn’t it? So what I’m thinking now is that I should just scrap everything I’ve written so far and condense the whole thing into one of those numbered lists you get in those interminable clickbait blogs written by young American hipsters doling out teaspoon-deep lifestyle tips. So…

21 REASONS WHY PROCREATING IS A SERIOUSLY BAD IDEA

(Unless you’ve done it already, in which case it’s totally fine and I love you all lots)

by Gobshite Youthful New Yorker, who’s come up with the whole thing without actually leaving the house or utilizing any genuine life experience or thought; just done a bit of googling, really, and mainly only in it for the money and exposure anyway

#1: Life is Suffering

The Buddha said it – you know, like the real genuine Buddha (the Dalai Lama’s granddad) – and who are we to argue with someone who looks so cool and peaced out while sitting on a shelf in the form of one of those little statues we all love?

“Old age, sickness and death,” he lamented – but that’s just the tip of the iceberg: what about ennui, corporate slavery, mental illness, depression, noisy neighbours, dog dirt, compulsively supporting England at a major tournament, middle-age spread, loneliness, premature balding, excessive nasal hair, and a billion other things besides.

Would you knowingly inflict all this on an as-yet uncreated being, who you professed to love? Imagine the conversation, 40 years down the line, when your depressed, cuckolded, suicidal son comes to tell you he’s about had enough:

Son: Did you know, dad, that life was so hard when you and mum decided to make me?

You: Yes, son – but we wanted something cute to look at, and something to distract us from our own existential torment.

Son: Thanks a bunch.

I know, I know: life is also joy and beer and Netflix and shiny colourful plastic things and farts – but…do you think there’ll be selling little statues of you two and a half thousand years down the line if that’s your philosophy?

(Though, let’s face it, the unnamed prophet of shiny things and fun sure has a lot more followers than Buddha, if we think about it…)

#2: It’s Bad For the Environment

In fact, it’s just about the worst thing you can do for the environment: it’s basically doubling whatever impact you yourself might have – and that’s not even beginning to factor in whatever offspring your offspring might produce.

This is the truth that the politicians will never tell you. Oh, they’ll go on about energy saving lightbulbs and not putting more water in your kettle than you actually need – but that’s all just an ineffectual drop in the ocean compared to the real solution.

Carbon footprint? You just created two more feet

#3: They’re Annoying

We all know this – there’s no need to labour the point.

#4 They’re Stupid

Maybe you think your kids are smart because they can count to 20 – but, big deal, any fool can do that. Hell, on a good day I can count to ONE THOUSAND AND TWENTY, and you don’t see me cartwheeling down the street asking for applause and carnations.

Have you really listened to the things kids say? Like, really, objectively, without sentiment? It’s hardly Wittgenstein, is it? As they interrupt your grown-up adult conversation to stutter and stumble and repeat the opening to some pointless sentence 18 times without really getting anywhere, yet demanding you pay attention to the whole tedious thing.

“But, daddy, I…I…you know, you know when Joe said that dolphins, daddy – when Joe said…erm, erm…when Joe said – not Joe, daddy, when…daddy? You know when Joe said that dolphins…erm…when…and…daddy…when Joe said I…”

We’ll cut it short there. You get the point.

#5 They’re Not Only Stupid, They’re Retarded

There’s an old joke that, personally, I think is disgusting, but I guess it serves to make the point. It goes:

Q: What’s the difference between a child and a mentally handicapped person?

A: You’re allowed to laugh at children when they’re being retarded

Seriously. Again. Listen to them objectively – watch them as though they were an adult friend of yours – you wouldn’t put up with it for five seconds.

To put it another way: you know when someone’s been in a terrible car crash and suffered brain damage and the doctor’s say, “he’s been left with the mental age of a five-year-old” and everyone shudders at the thought of how awful that is?

Well, if we flip it around…that means your oh-so-smart five-year-old has the mental capacity of the drooling wreck of a man who’s had half his brain turned to smush and can no longer tie his shoe laces.

Not so smart now, huh?

#6: It’s Selfish

Why do you want one? As we’ve already seen, it’s not for them – they were quite happy in the bliss of non-existence – so…it must be for you.

You want one because they’re cute and adorable?

Selfish: you just want something nice to look at.

You want one ‘cos you want something to love, and to be loved by?

Selfish: it’s all about you.

You want one ‘cos you can’t think of anything else to do; ‘cos you think it’ll make you happy; ‘cos you hope it’ll take away the boredom?

Selfish, selfish, selfish…

Oh, and if you want to counter that by pointing out how lovely and happy your child is, and that bringing them into existence has obviously been a good thing, for both them and the world, and therefore right…

How about all the ones you didn’t give birth to? How about kiddies 3 thru 12?

If existence is so great, in your belief system isn’t it therefore a little heartless to deny it to so many?

#7 They’re Expensive

Now every time you want to go on holiday, you’ll have to pay double. Plus it’ll be in peak season. Plus they won’t put up for sleeping in a thicket by the side of the road and eating cold beans.

Also, they won’t remember a bloody thing about it, or even much appreciate it at the time.

#8: They Grow Up to be Bastards

Hitler was a child. Donald Trump was a child. Even Charles Manson, Josef Fritzl, and Katie Hopkins were children once, running around carefree and scabby-kneed shining little eyes for adoring mothers and cameras.

It’s perhaps a little harsh and bleak, and not something many of us want to consider – but the fact is: every racist and rapist and bigot and murderer; ever trigger-happy cop, every meathead Marine, every US immigration official; every genocidal dictator, every Nazi war criminal, every WWF fan, every NRA member – they were all children once.

How can you be sure your little cherub won’t be one of them?

#9: Smart People Abstain; and Conversely…

You know who likes making babies? The lower class; the uneducated; drunks and junkies; the hyper-religious; those who want lots of contraception-free sex; and normal people.

And you know who doesn’t? That’s right: enlightened souls; people who have it all figured out; people who know what life is actually for.

Obviously, then, there’s a direct correlation between one’s level of evolution and the number of babies you want to make.

(Obviously, also, this point holds little water, and can be easily debunked with even the most cursory amount of research. But still…)

#10 Your Genes Are Probably No Good

Are you free from all physical, psychological, emotional, and mental problems?

Are you a good and wonderful person, to the core of your being?

If the answer to any of these questions is “no”, what makes you think it’s a good idea to pass on your DNA to a currently pristine, uncorrupted soul?

#11 They’re the Cause of All the World’s Problems

Overpopulation. Famine. Poverty. War.

It’s all children’s fault.

#12 A Child is Not Just For Christmas

Every now and then someone will hold up a baby and say, “Isn’t he just the cutest? Doesn’t it make you want one?”

I have to admit it: when they do that – beyond agreeing with the cuteness thing (sometimes) – there’s a part of me that wonders if they haven’t maybe lost their minds.

They do know they don’t stay babies forever, right?

When someone asks me “if I want one” I don’t only see cute gurgling smiling baby; I see toddler, teen, adolescent, young adult, middle-aged man, old man, and coffin.

The baby bit is pretty short, in the grand scheme of things: a more accurate question would be to point at someone in their 40s or 60s and ask if you want one of them.

#13 It’s Just Nature/Evolution Having Its Wicked Way With You

Everything I’ve said above, you already know, and no doubt agree with. And if you’ve ever spent any time with kids, you also know how dreadful it can be, and how offputting to the idea of making any.

But nature is wily – as well as selfish and cruel – and has many trump cards up its sleeve, in its bid to make you its puppet…

That screaming, tantrumming baby you’ve been on the brink of murdering the past 3 hours?

See how it suddenly turns and smiles at you, with its big pure eyes, and, in an instant, makes you forget everything and even think about wanting more.

What about that person you’re in love with, can’t get enough of, are literally INTOXICATED BY?

And the abandon you feel in your sex (and in your brain chemistry) when you throw caution to the wind, FOR ONE SPLIT SECOND – and another life is born.

You think that’s you? You think that you’re in charge, and making that choice?

And then there’s that woman there with the pretty face, the flash of cleavage, the reveal of belly – all temporary, fleeting, soon transformed – and for some reason you have to get on top of her.

We’re just dogs. Slaves to evolution. Automatons of Schopenhauer’s “Wille Zum Leben”, seemingly intent on filling the planet with human meat and houses.

You think about it and see if I’m wrong.

#14 It’s Bad For Your Soul

The whole point is to get off the wheel of life and rebirth. To then purposefully put another being on it…

Well, that’s bad karma, man, sure to come back around…

#15 There’s Enough of Them Already

I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but there’s no shortage of humans on the planet – it’s not like kids are water in a drought, desperately needed, the call going urgently out for men and women to get it on and introduce more bodies into the world before it’s too late.

Seven billion and counting. The world simply don’t need more kids.

If you want something to love, adopt an orphan. Do something selfless. Genuinely serve the planet, and another.

#16 It’s Mainly Just Sex We Want

Imagine this: imagine you get to go meet God – the head honcho, the big cheese, the grand cajone – and you can request one thing of Him/Her/It.

Imagine you say to God, “God, man, you right royally fucked up by mixing sex and procreation. Sex is fun, man: it’s about one of the best things two humans can get up to. Like, just a perfect way to enjoy our wonderful bodies, get high, have some recreation – so why this seemingly bizarre and arbitrary connection with procreation?”

God mumbles something about primitive man not understanding how to make more of himself, therefore She needed to introduce all these complex biochemical functions, so that the males, much like a guppy or a rhinoceros, would feel compelled to chuck a load of spunk up a woman’s vagina, and the female, in turn, would want it.

“Yeah, God, I get that – but, thing is, we’ve moved beyond that now. We understand how things work. We can do things consciously now. We don’t need to be unconsciously, subliminally forced to continue the species.”

“So what do you suggest?”

“I suggest this: make it so that conception can only occur after a man has consumed, say, 12 tomatoes within the two hour period leading up to insemination. That way, all procreation – well, pretty much all procreation; a few weird cases aside – would be conscious, desired, thought-through, and in the hands of the usually irresponsible male. Imagine the situation a few generations down the line. People could still have their fun, and there’d be no more teen pregnancies, no more humans as a result of drunken one-night-stands, no more overpopulation in famine-stricken countries (one would hope). It’d be utopia.”

“That’s a pretty good idea.”

“It doesn’t have to be tomatoes.”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

#17: You Won’t Actually Like Them That Much

But you’ll be stuck with them. And you’ll adapt. And nature will fill you full of love. And you’ll look past most of the maddening things they do.

Also, you’ll never, ever be able to admit to not really liking them, and the suppressing of that will make you make do.

Even prisoners come to love the cells they live in, and ache when they have to leave them behind.

#18: They’re Worse Than The Worst Kind of Immigrants

They come over here. They don’t speak the language. They leech off the system. Don’t lift a finger for themselves. Take take take. Expect everything handed to them on a plate.

Yup: that’s kids for you.

And now, to balance it out…

·         Yes, they are cute and adorable and extremely lovely and fill you with all kinds of glorious feelings, and enrich life in a way that being a serial singleton can never do

·         You’re really smart, so you’ll make an excellent parent, and your kids will be awesome

·         The chances are EXTREMELY GOOD that they won’t rape, kill, defraud, or otherwise bring monumental suffering to others

·         It’s probably the natural thing to do, you know?