Say what you want about my generation. We had our failings.
But we never, and I mean never, confused a fake girlfriend or boyfriend with a
real one. That's because we shtupped. Apparently, no one ever told Manti Te'o
Manti Te'o, the Notre Dame linebacker with the fake dead girlfriend, is symptomatic of his generation--a sad, delusional generation. A generation full of overly zealous Mormons, straight edgers, born again Christians, virgins, born again virgins, and blowup doll aficionados. A generation distracted and confused by texting, sexting, messaging, Skyping, and phone sex. A generation who believes Anthony Weiner committed adultery.
Shtupping is like reading--it's fundamental. Shtupping is essential. Shtupping is unmistakable. Shtupping is a litmus test. If you are uncertain as to whether a young lady is your girlfriend, ask yourself the following three questions. One, did I shtup her? Two, did she shtup me? Three, did we shtup? Okay, how did we do?
God created shtupping for a reason, and I don't just mean
having babies, although so far no one has gotten pregnant via coaxial cable.
Shtupping requires a basic commitment. Maybe not the commitment of a lifetime.
Maybe not even the commitment of a full weekend. But at least for those few
bare-assed minutes, you can honestly say you were in a relationship.
Manti Te'o is a product of our own madness. We created him with our political correctness, our Neo-Puritanism, and our endless STD public service announcements. Most of all we created him with our genital-numbing fundamentalist religions. We have bastardized our religions beyond recognition. There was no football in the Bible. There were no guns in the Bible. But there was plenty of shtupping. Jacob waited seven years to shtup Rachel and shtupped Leah instead. So he waited another seven years and shtupped Rachel for real. Not for a minute did he imagine either fair maiden was his girlfriend or concubine or anything else for that matter until consummation day one or consummation day two.
But now we live in a Tim Tebow world, where celibacy is lionized and discussed in graphic detail. In this brainwashed, cultish mindset, celibacy is the one true virtue. And the point is not that these prudish automatons don't believe is sex until marriage. They barely even believe in sex after marriage. It's as if their entire life is analogous to the days leading up to a championship prize fight. The paramount goal in this perverse paradigm is to save up your semen for so long that when you finally unload--hopefully in the next life rather than this one--the explosion is the primordial counterpart to the Big Bang, creating new spiritual universes and leaving not even a trace of impure matter on a bed sheet.
The problem with celibacy, however, is that it doesn't work. It leads to scandals and iniquities orders of magnitude beyond what the simple shtup would have wrought in the first place. Celibacy leads to hypocrisy. Celibacy leads to bullying. Celibacy leads to fender-benders metastasizing into shootouts. Celibacy leads to Abu Ghraibs. Celibacy leads to monastic pedophilia. Celibacy leads to Republicanism. Celibacy leads to televangelism. And celibacy leads ultimately to Manti Te'o, the poster boy for post-adolescent sexual brain death.
But there is hope. And that hope lies, perhaps not ironically, in the very concept rightwing dimwits have been trying for decades to pound out of our culture harder and faster than the plunging neckline--evolution. The more the Manti Te'os and Tim Tebows of the planet hook up with their imaginary online friends instead of the real football groupies waiting at the parking lot exit of the visiting locker room, the fewer baby Te'os and Tebows we'll have twenty years from now confusing gooey, heartfelt tweets with full-on shtupping.
But who are we kidding? The Te'os and Tebows will eventually all stumble upon a real shtup somehow, somewhere between a ChristianMingle.com session and an episode of The Bachelorette. And then they will breed like the Duggars.