In this crazy chop-chop, let’s-get-going, stop-crying-and-put-your-shoes-on-so-help-me-God world, time is our most important resource. Time and pig iron. And you know who know how to manage their time? Benedictine monks. Whether it be translating everything into Latin or making sweet-ass wine, those sons of bitches were veritable whirlwinds of white-hot, facefucking synergy, and they got results. Their secret? Not masturbating.
As an experiment of sorts, I’ve taken a page out of their incredibly nonerotic book and refrained entirely from riding the highway to my danger zone. I normally spend about eight to ten hours a week masturbating so I’m up to my ass in free time now. As of this moment I’ve lost sixteen pounds, painted my boat, cured Hepatitis C, come up with the best popcorn seasoning ever, and written over 25 hours of dialogue for what can only be described as Battlestar Galactica fanfic as penned by Goethe. And despite my constant shaking and perpetual urge to rub my groin onto various passersby or anything that doesn’t immediately scald me when I do so, the free time I have is just sweet.
The only problem is that I now have lying around my apartment piles of unused pornography, lubricants, and still-inthe-box RealDolls. It’s quite a feat to stumble over them without giving in to temptation, but I can only imagine it was the same for those monks, who had to walk around those cathedrals all the time with those spicy little nuns everywhere, their wrinkled breasts barely restrained by those habits, rosary beads clacking like two efficiently fucking robots… Excuse me, I’ll be right back, in eight to ten hours.
