Friday, 19 July 2013

Brotherhood of the Blue Balls by Sam Carter

Read by Sean Hebert

It was Mick’s idea, first of all. Mick was kind of a doofus when it came to chicks, but kind of a genius when it came to everything else, and after he came up with the idea, the guys immediately knew it was a winner. It was such an incredibly simple and wonderful idea that it was actually amazing nobody had thought of it before. Apart from a few religious nuts, obviously.

You wanna know what the idea was? OK, prepare your mind to be blown – it was this: celibacy.






OK, maybe it doesn’t sound such a shit-hot plan when you put it like that, and the idea wasn’t just celibacy, naturally – but that was the cornerstone of it, the bedrock, the ground-zero. This is what Mick said to persuade the guys.

“Here’s the thing: we’re intelligent men, right? We’re all at an Ivy League college, sky-high GPAs, genius-level IQs, scholarships up the wazoo, and yet class by class chicks are beating the shit out of us. Why? Because they don’t spend half their time chasing ass and the other half beating their meat when they don’t get it. Chicks have it made, man! Whenever they wanna get laid they just whistle: whenever they wanna study they got nothing distracting them. That’s where we wanna be. That’s where we gotta be if we wanna keep our scholarships!”

“Yeahhhh!” cheered the guys. The guys were all drinking in the common room, despite their genius-level IQs and mounting assignments. Many of them felt the truth of what Mick said, and most of them were hoping Mick had found a way to get them laid more easily, kind of like Russell Crowe did in A Beautiful Mind, when he went for the less hot chick and won the Nobel Prize, or something.

Mick had to break it to them that actually, what he was proposing was fewer distractions, rather than more sex, but hell, they were all on the verge of getting kicked out, so the guys needed a solution fast and were willing to try anything.

“Just think,” said Mick, stars of hope and passion glimmering in his eyes, “how much work we could get done if we weren’t constantly hunting pussy! Carlton, you could finish that laser project; Jimmy, you could learn Hebrew at last; Vic, you could write that definitive study of Whitman!”

The guys murmured in interest and rueful agreement. Mick himself was privately sure that given a year of celibacy, he could prove Goldbach’s Conjecture and have time over to work on a Grand Unified Theory, finishing what Einstein had started. All he needed was a little self-control, and some moral support from his friends. Of course monks had known about the efficiency rewards of celibacy for millennia, but they’d squandered all the time they saved on worshipping God rather than doing something useful. This would be the first time in the history of the world that man would be able to reach his full productive potential, unswayed by hot asses, incredible racks or even cute noses. The possibilities were awe-inspiring.

And so the Celibacy Fraternity – otherwise known on campus as the Brotherhood of the Blue Balls – was born. After a month, the results spoke for themselves, and membership of the Brotherhood became highly competitive and strictly controlled. When Nico sold his new smartphone software to Apple he shared the profits with his Blue Balled brothers, to help build a new frat house with a bigger library and higher, better fortified walls. When, six months in, Andrew got a publishing deal for his philosophical/self-help primer Keep It In Your Pants, he donated the entire proceeds to Mick in gratitude, and all the Brothers got new breathable habits and a heated pool.

The scholarships the guys had been on the verge of losing were retained, and renewed, and added to; but the number of inventions, discoveries, innovations and revelations the Brotherhood was coming up with dwarfed any academic stipends. By the end of Year One, half the Brothers were millionaires and the rest were PhDs. Theirs was the single most focused intellectual environment in the Western world – and inevitably, the girls wanted in.

It was Mick’s twin sister Emmylou who first seriously tried to emulate the Brotherhood’s astonishing success in an all-female environment. Single-sex dorms, houses and even whole universities had tried in the past to concentrate their students’ minds on their studies, but they had never addressed the root of the problem: that in order truly to free the mind for higher things, celibacy cannot be imposed, but must be voluntarily embraced.

The problem with Emmylou’s female cohorts, she realised, was not so much that they devoted all their time and ingenuity trying to get laid, but instead that they were frittering their mental and emotional energy on thinking about guys. Guys who might or might not like them; who did or did not call them; who flirted with or ignored them … Basically, whatever any guy in their life did, Emmylou’s brilliant friends would endlessly analyse, dissect and worry about – to the point, sometimes, of actual insanity.

She explained this to her brother via the grille in his cell door through which he received petitions, cheques and small snacks on alternate Mondays. Mick, moved by her plight and the plight of women in general, gave his blessing and a generous start-up grant to a sibling establishment, a sorority called the Sisterhood of the Crossed Legs, to be run by Emmylou.

It’s only been a few months now, but already the Sisters have cracked Linear A and decoded the Rongorongo script of Easter Island. Emmylou, whose gift for engineering rivals her brother’s for mathematics, has nearly perfected her hydrogen engine, and Crossed Legs Genetech Inc. has created four new breeds of disease-resistant cereals and put the patents in the public domain.

Mick and Emmylou even claim that if the Sisterhood and the Brotherhood put their heads (and nothing else) together, a cure for cancer could be on the horizon – shortly followed by the secret of immortality. The Dow Jones does not seem to think they are joking.

Perhaps the only people unhappy about this brave new world in which the intellectual has at last conquered the sexual are Mick and Emmylou’s parents, who’d always fondly imagined they would one day have the joy of grandchildren. But as Emmylou tells them, when she takes their concerned phonecalls on alternate Mondays, she’s working on an app for that.

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