Balls

Our Balls, Ourselves

December 10, 2012

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Our Balls, Ourselves

Brothers, gents, countrymen, and assorted randy lads and bucks galloping like centaurs through fields of feminine flowers and wantonly squirting their seed the world over, I regret to inform you that the worm has turned on the world’s sperm. Our gonads face a crisis of historic proportions. A Spermocaust is unfolding a mere three feet beneath our very eyes.

French men not producing as much sperm,” trumpets the headline to a Reuters article written by—haw!—Andrew M. Seaman and citing a study released last Wednesday by the journal Human Reproduction. The study, thought to be the most comprehensive of its kind ever, scrutinized the jizz-production of 26,609 Frenchmen from 1989 to 2005 and found that the number of insouciant, beret-wearing tadpoles in their semen decreased by nearly a third during that time period. The study also found a “significant” decrease in the quality of the sperm, which I presume was achieved through rigorous taste-testing.

One might rightfully ask, “Yes, but who counts the sperm-counters?” and for that I truly have no answer, nor do I deign to fabricate one merely to please you. And yes, it is always a mistake to project the experiences of Frenchmen onto the world’s non-Gallic male population, but other data suggest a similar trend. An Israeli sperm bank recently bemoaned a similar drop of viable sperm among its donors. A 2001 report in the British Medical Journal concluded that men born after 1970 coughed up 25% fewer sperm per wad than men born prior to 1959. A groundbreaking (ball-breaking?) 1992 meta-study by a Danish endocrinologist revealed that from 1938 to 1990, global sperm counts had plummeted a scrotum-shrinking 42%.

“Gentlemen, the time is nigh to reclaim your balls. Don’t just grow a pair—grow a quartet.”

The disturbing dip in sperm counts is apparently coinciding with a trend of declining levels of the Evil Male Hormone testosterone.

In response to the new French sperm study, the website slate.com, which like so much of the new soft-dicked Goddess-compliant press seems on a menstrual mission of minstrelsy to publicly geld any man who exhibits any manliness, asked, “Why are men so bad at making sperm cells?

If they’re truly seeking an answer rather than an excuse to randomly swing hammers at testes, part of the problem appears to be environmental. The much-maligned bisphenol-A (BPA) has been linked to decreased sperm production, as have agricultural pesticides and the rampant use of antidepressant drugs among the world’s depressed and pretend-depressed males. Electromagnetic radiation from wireless technology also reputedly turns sperm into toast. So does smoking and overindulging in alcohol or caffeine. So does obesity—yes, I’m talking to you, all you muffin-topped quasi-males polluting the horizon with your incessantly flopping man-boobs.

Speaking of diet, soy protein reportedly turns he-men into she-males. If you’re seeking to enhance your sperm count and testosterone levels, it’s suggested you eat a lot of animal protein, take Vitamin A and D supplements, swallow oysters, nibble on dark chocolate, and chew the occasional walnut. You should also get some sleep, lift weights, and try not to be such a sissy.

Although correlation does not imply causation in scientific or logical terms, it should at least permit the fanciful scribe to employ it as a metaphor. This ongoing evaporation of sperm and testosterone coincides with an accelerating cultural devaluation of All Things Male.

I rarely watch television but recently had cause to subject myself to Dancing With the Stars in conjunction with an article I wrote on Chaz Bono, who I quickly realized is by far the most masculine man on modern TV. I’m reasonably sure that a mere hour’s worth of exposure to the ongoing runway parade of bird-chested, faux-hawked, machismo-free zeta males that pass for men on television these days caused a significant temporary decline in both my sperm count and testosterone levels which was only alleviated by climbing a mountain while blindfolded and wrestling a gator with my hands tied behind my back.


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