THE AGE AT WHICH MEN ARE WISE

Let's call him 'Roger'. It's not his actual name, though close, and there also is a real Roger who habituates the lounge, but there is only one of him with his name, and I am a discreet man, so I would not want any accidental wigging on to his identity. Roger.

There are some questions one must never ask. In a room with a lot of other people. Instead of at the doctor's office. With the nurse absent.
And no one other than your practitioner there.

In private.


"Is there an age at which a man's body no longer releases sperm?"


Well, Roger, how old are you now?

You know, I don't think most men experience anything equivalent to the menopause. As you get older, the hormonal imbalance of youth settles down, your metabolism changes, and your behaviour mellows out a bit. Your personality improves, and you regretfully learn that you will not be the brain surgeon oil painter astronaut that saves the world.
You become a better and calmer person.

And most men don't really worry about sperm. Issuance thereof. Yes, sperm count does go down. But unless there are "issues", or your life is filled with stress, you are still a biological danger to womanity.

And asking a room full of cigar-smoking middle-aged men about sperm is, strictly speaking, asking for it.



HOWEVER ...

In the case of some of those same gentlemen (cigar smokers) the sperm probably crawls up through the lymphatic ducts and starts attacking their brains. Others experience gradual crotch decomposition, till at last their testes have rotted entirely and are enclosed in hard calcined shells which leave their thighs bruised and bleeding unless restrained. A few of those very same fellows are so withered and perverted that I was surprised to hear that they spawned. How the heck did that happen?
Was a medical intervention necessary?
Were both of them drunk?
Second coming?

Bear in mind we're talking about an entire room filled with middle-aged cheroot-huffing varmints yowling at telly-football.
NOT normal folks like you or I.

We smoke pipes, still have all of our balls, and aren't into pigskins.
Which is sissy stuff anyway.


Apparently the Forty-Niners lost forty one to thirteen today. It left all those men limp, and they slunk away looking drained and exhausted, spent.
Pale, wan, dessicated. Withered. Only half alive.
Betcha they had no vigour left.
Vital juices curdled.
Clapped-out.



I would detail the natural superiority of pipe-smokers at this point, but you've probably already figured that out entirely by yourself.
We are filled with both vim and good cheer.
Robust. Energetic. Alive.
And charming.




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