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Tuesday, August 9, 2016

Invasion of the Mutant One-Eyed Trouser Snake

Let's adjourn from discussion such frivolous talk about politics and God, and talk about something that really matters...

Titties... Garbanzos, milk bags.

But first. The boring part.

At the turn of the thirties geneticists had given up on designer babies with genius IQs after a rash of precious snowflakes had developed a range severe mental handicaps to reward their parents letting science mettle with then in a petri-dish. It was supposed to be the Brave New World of perfect offspring who'd rule over the lumpenproles and their growing idiocracy, but the Gods have a cruel sense of humor. Most heard voices in their heads and talked to people who didn't exist. Some had genius IQs to complement severe autism and violent, uncontrollable mood swings. Embarrassed masters of the Universe hid their dogmatic 'Rain Man' children, and then tried to hide their attempts to sweep adult children in pajamas under the rug out of shame and embarrassment.

In one extreme case, Chad Barlemew, the heir to a billion dollar media empire, was caught spying at girls in a middle school with his pants around his ankles. Chad's mother, Anastasia Barlemew, was featured on the cover of 'The New Modernist' on a feature piece about the new designer babies who would soon be our superiors. She'd spent more than twenty-million dollars on the finest genetic engineering available and organized his childhood as if he were destined to be Alexander the Great reincarnated in an age of selfies and thinking cars. A man who would grow to dominate a weak world and shape it to his image.

Chad, who was supposed to be destined for the life of private jets, mega philanthropy and society functions, liked to masturbate outside the homes of women he had a crush on. He didn't have a perverted urge to satisfy, it was literally the best idea he could come up with to get with women he desired. After the first, embarrassing revelation that he lost a million dollars in a ponzi scheme so brazen and obvious as to qualify as performance art, the press lavishly reported every humiliation of the once great Barlemew name. He was swindled out of thousands by teenagers with fake ecstasy pills, he became a target for shameless gold diggers that the savvy players avoided like the plague. He was arrested for stealing a cement mixing truck because he thought it was cool. The mockery reached such a pitch that even a mouth breathing moron like Chad could pick up on it, and he tried to disappear but he was too incompetent to pull that off. He was fired from a garbage hauling company after a week for incompetence. He was arrested in Tennessee for soliciting prostitutes next to a uniformed police cruiser. Sometimes the press attention bordered on the cruel.

Occasionally, a flash of the brilliance he was supposed to be endowed with would reveal itself from the sea of idiocy. He attended a game theory seminar in Boston, and beat an AI machine in five simulations, a feat never achieved once by a human, but ruined that moment by knocking over a vending machine because it didn't dispense the right candy bar. He had a near savant like facility for high stakes poker but could never win games due to his penchant for flying off the handle and dropping his pants out of frustration. He finally succeeded at being an alcoholic at dive bars and finished out his days spouting conspiracy theories after endless gin and tonics. Tens of millions dollars were wasted and the Barlemews became a laughing stock to those same lumpenproles they looked down their noses at. Laws were passed effectively outlawing genetic cognitive enhancement of human fetuses, but they law wasn't necessary.

The Uber rich will spend fortunes to elevate themselves above mere mortals, and public embarrassment is the greatest misfortune that could befall them. The designer baby boom had risen in a mad rush and would have collapses just as fast if Dohan Arneli had not stumbled upon a method to achieve more modest results. A discovery which would make him rich.

Arneli worked as a geneticist for Dow corporation, researching gene treatments for breast cancer. Whether he stumbled on his great discovery, as he claims, by accident or if he had spent years developing the theory and the methods is still debated by scientific historians. He had organized secret meetings in Dow's regional offices in Cambridge to reveal his plan to make them untold riches. No records exist of this meeting, so we can only speculate. One imagines the following exchanges:

-I've figured out a genetic enhancement which will put us at the forefront of the field, something bigger than curing cancer! Bigger than curing any disease. Bigger than the space program!

-We're very important people who don't like wasting our time, what could change the face our entire industry?


Then he reveals pictures of women who've been blessed with the most impressive sets of tatas in the history of men owning cameras and the rest of the men, and whatever women were sitting in that meeting, high fived each other. He'd figure out how to enhance females in the womb to grow perfect breasts when they hit puberty. And not just make those gallogas bigger, but perfectly shaped, gravity defying orbs of perfection. The kind of hooters that stand at attention with permanent semi-erect nipples pointing forward in the direction of progress. The kind of knockers that hypnotize men, making them question God and the Universe.

Dohan Arneli started the second designer baby gold rush.

The first on the bandwagon were the refined old money scions, and the politically connected among the global elite. None would admit that they were willing to spend the price of large yacht so their little girls would grow proud, and perfectly shaped nipple-cakes. That was something the only uncouth nouveau riche would admit to. They all made statements that they wanted their daughters to be happy with any body shape, while secretly hoping they'd end up with the holy-grail of a taught, athletic size-zero body with impossible double-dees on top. Of course they were all full of it. Two-decades later a new class of debutantes had emerged on the world stage with nary a flat chest in site. Elegantly starved matrons introduced their pubescent daughters with the same elegant, half-starved jawlines and perfectly engorged sweater puppies.

The breast enhancement industry collapsed as only the trashiest of the new money rich would fork out money to get rock hard, staff-infection like breast implants to compete with trust fund kids walking with the perfect jiggle under her blouse. What worried mother would deny her precious daughter the gift of sweet, sweet balls of fun? It was just something else to worry about in a world engineered to give women an endless series of superficial subjects to be insecure about.

The daughters of rich women who'd won medals on the field or parlayed their ballet career into a second job as a trophy wife, took to topless sunbathing to keep tan lines off their precious mammies. Who cares if you can't win a cross-country races with a pair of pert threatening juggs to burst free from your extra-strength sports bra and smack you in the face when you see how they fill out that silky black dress?

Where the old money folks with their elegant yachts and their Waspy aspirations limited their creepy parental aspirations to bazookas that would look refined in an opera dress, the new money went hog wild when it came to their daughter's Betty Boops. How could you knowingly risk having a flat chested daughter who'd find herself surrounded by peers destined for low back surgery and custom made lingerie? New money took the trend to the next level.

The Jed Clampets, the Farook Hussein's, the Vitaly's who were one generation removed from outhouses and drunken brawling weren't about to let their precious daughters get upstaged by some self-important twat with a heaving bussom. They were gonna get their little girls the biggest and bestest gajungas that those scientitations in their white labcoats could make.

The girls with names like Jasmine, Mannie-Jo, Fatima and Jameisa came onto the scene with missile silos straining their bra straps to the breaking point. Fifteen year old girls with skinny, size-zero bodies were carrying around tripple-H sized sugar plums that upstaged anything else she brought to the table. Some of these girls even dreamed of achieving in the professional sphere. They dreamt of serving as judges, or commanding board rooms, but it's hard to get people to take you seriously when you have a body built for fetish porn addicts and Russ Meyer tribute groups.

Annabelle Stephens was second generation new money after her father struck it rich in undersea mining, and decided that his little girl would have a great life if she looked like the dancers at the Sweet Titties night club where he'd spent his bachelor days. Anabelle didn't aspire to a future of jiggling her Tamales at guys on payday with cash and handle-bar mustaches. She got into Yale law school on a scholarship but quit after her second year when she realized that you can't upstage milk jugs bigger than your head. As the late comedian Rupert Graves put it... "How you gonna to advocate for children's rights when you got some manunga bugungas and them orphan boys be staring at 'em?". Some savvy guys made a killing by investing in the breast reduction industry which boomed when these girls decided that they were fine with jiggle buckets that were spectacular instead of gargantuan.

Progress always brings new anxieties into the world. Fathers generally stayed out of the important decision about what kind of jingle-bells his little girl was going to have, but the mothers spent the rest of their lives rationalizing what they chose or rejected. Some of the most ardent sixth or seventh, or whatever wave of feminism coincided the Jiggle-Melon bubble, Feminists made ardent stands against the oppression of a body standard that made, they claimed, women lacking the right top straining beanbags feel self-conscious. That it was an assault on the idea that being a woman meant more than hypnotizing men with acres of cleavage.

Helen Stately started 'All Bodies are Beautiful' in 2055, that innocent time when women from nice families still walked the earth with A-Cup angel cakes and ballerinas didn't need double-strength sports bras with extra support. Stately organized flash protests at medical schools and hospitals around the world, shaming women who wanted their daughters to grow proper snuggle mounds, or the scienticians who made it possible. Or maybe both, it was never quite clear.

The iconic image of a three shirtless women from Brown University, proudly revealing their flat chests became a lightning rod on both sides. Until Stately's eldest daughter, Amanda, grew a fantastic pair of Marangos that she loved to show off in cleavage enhancing tops. Her former movement turned into a circus act when her second daughter, Maggie, failed to develop the stunning love muffins of her sister, and instead came to resemble her flat chested mother. Amanda showed up at rallies decrying the pressure that mothers felt when having children, her bouncy suckle jellies on display the whole time. Maggie blamed her mom for not endowing her like Amanda, and then for endowing Amanda and betraying her ideals

This family drama played out around the world as expecting parents, the smart self-conscious ones, spun their rationalization hamsters at full speed, trying to predict how having, or not having, a sweet pair of bouncy-bouncies would impact their little-girls future life. Some stalwarts went against the trend, determined that their precious little girls could still enjoy a full life with only b-cup nipple-fun bags, but they were the exception. How could you deny her the benefit of perfect alohas when all your peers are doing just that and then lying about it all the way? This was only a concern among those who aspired to sophistication. The crude new money folks just said what their smarter cousins implied. 'We gonna make sure Tammie May got the sweetest set of Cha-Chas you ever done seen!'

Over two-generations, all women born of a certain wealth, no matter how skinny or emaciated, ended up with full round hubba-hubbas until the new kids had to trade historical photos of the old days when people spoke into wired phones, took selfies with film cameras, and most women had small breasts that they enhanced using an invention called the pushup bra. An age where women with amazing ta-tas were rare and celebrated for all the world to see for having been gifted by the genetic Gods.

Of course once scientists figured out how make little girls grow humongous yams, it was only a matter of time before someone figured out how apply that technology to dick enhancement for your son. Thousands of genetic engineers in the greatest labs around the world toiled with all the intensity of the men involved in the Manhattan Project in a ceaseless quest to enhance the human male party-stick. The prestige press felt embarrassed with the horse race aspect of treating the race to democratize the porn-star love rod, so it fell to the tabloids to follow the greatest scientific discovery of post AI age.

A generation after really smart people figured out how to engineer spectacular Papayas for young women, they figured out how to program the genetic code of a boy in the womb so he'd develop a jumbo schlong. Billions of dollars that could've gone to developing vaccines or improving AI went into making sure that your little boy could achieve the dream of having a nickname like Dirk Diggler.

The floodgates opened.

Parents of wealth were willing to put real money into giving their daughter the type of cleavage that can hypnotize men, and some rejected that concept on principle, but nobody wanted to be left behind when it came to make sure their boys were packin'. Parents living in trailers took out mortgage sized loans so their first born would come into this world with a Big Lebowski and the serene well-being that comes with one. Few denied it. Parents had no compunction with the world knowing that they ordered a twelve-incher for their first born and were durn proud of it too. These golden sons developed into men with bacon torpedos that hung so elegantly and were so perfectly and flaccidly proportional the rest of him that you could put a picture of it on the mantle and beam at it with pride at family gatherings.

Soon there was a generation of lucky boys walking around with mutant trouser snakes bulging out of their pants. They took to wearing athletic pants with no underwear, the better to show off behemoth swaying hither and tither, threatening to burst out. Again, it was the folks one step out of the trailer parks, shantytowns and slum-ghettos who took it to full-retard levels, and made sure the men and women in white lab coats endowed their sons with sex sausages grown to ludicrous proportions.

It was the golden age of frontal male nudity in mainstream entertainment, a change in the media landscape so widespread that people came to expect the star to 'Hang Dong' at some point in even children's movies.

Politicians grumbled about regulating this nascent industry, but none wanted to stand in front of a crowd and say 'We should limit the maximum pernis size to thirteen inches for the health of the child'. There's probably no more spectacular way to turn a rising political career into a perpetual punchline than to have the cajones to back legislation concerning engineered penis size. Because of their failure, there were soon young men taping their enormous fleshrockets around their thighs, complaining about how they couldn't even enjoy sex because 'only the tip'll fit in!'.

The comic opera reached its' peak with Jamal Harris whose father ordered a daddy part that stood twenty-three inches long at full salute, with the girth of a forearm. He started his rap career under the name 'Captain Long Dick' wipping the monster out at live shows when performed the iconic 'Smack ya inna face wit' my Dick'. Half his publicity stills featured Jamal, a look of defiance on his face, cash in his hand, and his elephant trunk out his pants, hanging almost to his knee. Behind the scenes, he despaired at ever popping his cherry with equipment better scaled for getting it on with a buffalo than the poor women who tried, and failed, to accommodate his Godzilla sized ramrod. His last song before his suicide was 'She can only lick da' tip'.

Despite the lack of any regulation, most parents chose a sensibly huge girth sausage of eleven to thirteen inches when it's ready for action. Big enough to brag in the locker room, small enough that a woman could pretend to love getting stretched out by it. The first generation of guys who came of age with science enhanced meat cigars finally allowed humanity to answer one of the age old questions of civilization... How much male ambition is overcompensating for packing a subpar nut cannon?

For generations women, and loser males who sucked up to them, would dismiss the ambitions of any man she didn't like by claiming that his new toy or accomplishment must've been compensating for having a tiny poker. It became go to insult for any man who owned a ridiculous sports car, who climbed a mountain, or wore a nice suit. The way to dismiss a man who acquired a skill of no pragmatic value or spent lavishly on a first awkward date. Always implied with these insults was the question, if men express boundless ambition to impress the world to mask their insecurity for having tiny jackhammer, what do guys who are packing jumbos set out to do with their lives?...

The first generation of genetically enhanced super men gave the world its' answer. Flaunt it like it contained the answer to all questions and don't sweat the other details. Why go to the trouble of buying a Ferrari when you've got magic in your pants? The sale of aspirational luxury goods plummeted as soon as they became associated with men who had mere normal sized johnsons, the kind that get the job done like good, reliable compact car, but not the kind that brag about to your girlfriends at the next morning's yoga session to fight the soreness.

Where once, young women on the make would live to be seen as arm candy at fancy resorts or sitting shotgun in the fanciest of cars, now she doesn't feel like she's arrived unless she's regularly getting her cervix rammed into her throat by a modern day bohemian whose entire self-worth is contained in his mighty jungle hose. You might be sore at first, but women figured out exercise courses that made it easier to accept toddler's arm showing a muffin into her like she actually enjoyed it. Women who dated high achievers whose families didn't or couldn't spend to give him a gorilla sized third leg, would stout how ambitious and kind he was. Her girlfriends would gossip to each other that he must lacking in equipment and she must be somehow lesser for lowering herself to a regular man.

What's sexual pleasure and lifestyle of love and pampering if you can't make other women jealous of the man you have?

These young women, innocent of how life used to be lived in the analog old days, with their perfect, pendulous Grand Tetons came to view getting stretched out by a lazy surf bum packing a jumbo kielbasa sausage of a ram rod as the path of self-fulfillment and ego validation.

Where men and women of a certain class went to swanky clubs to meet each other, they now went to newfangled swimming pool bars where men would put on their smoove moves in tight speedos, to show off how much their parents cared. Only guys packing a normal sized, pump action yogurt gun would wear swim trunks and they stood awkwardly at the sides of the club while the men in speedos cruised around the pool's borders with the recognizable 'pimp-walk' gait of a man whose gear got in the way of a normal stride.

Who cared about the man with small to normal sized soldier? Nobody. Women who had no need to wear a bra could get sympathy from men and women alike, but men without the courage to whip out their frog legs got sympathy from nobody. Not their fellow men, not flat chested women who couldn't stand the subtle mockery of other women, not business, not the government. If it weren't for the ubiquity of VR porn and semi-realistic sex bots, a revolution would have happened.

These men, the men who organized society and made sure the water ran, and the garbage was collected slowly dropped out of society to a make believe world were women could love a man with a bop gun that wasn't the envy of her female friends. Infrastructure crumbled, organizations grew sclerotic and corrupt. But nobody cared when they could show off their amazing endowments and focus on shallow self fulfillment.

The technology got cheaper and cheaper and humanity lost the average looking, the normally endowed who used to make the world go around. The new world was filled with men who went commando in kilts and women who practiced her hip sashay to achieve the perfect amount of jiggle. Humanity had to wait two-generations until perfect pumpkins and bananas were commonplace enough that we could all go back to caring about your character and accomplishments. Two generations before we could care about building things to be remembered by.

And this is how dreams of earlier generations, the great voyages to space, the desire to explore the great caves or venture under the sea faded away. Perhaps this explains the Fermi Paradox. Civilizations discovered a way to enhance their sex characteristics when they were on the verge of great breakthroughs and took to showing them off instead of achieving anything. If an alien civilization ever does venture across the vastness of space to make first contact with humans, our first emissary from another world may dispense with overtures of peace or universe wide oneness and just reach into his silver jumpsuit to show off his big, green space dingus.

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