Texas Sex-Ed Textbooks Remove All Mention of Sex

ducators nationwide were dismayed by the Texas Board of Education’s decision this week to approve four new sexual education textbooks for use in the state’s schools, none of which mention sex, reproduction, or the human body in any way.

“Sex education should be about educating kids to never have sex, as the Lord intended,� explained Carl Lowell, a spokesperson for the board. “It shouldn’t be about giving them pointers on how to break the baby Jesus’ heart.�

Texans everywhere appeared to be eerily on the same page when it came to the topic of the board’s decision, leaving the impression that the entire state may only have one brain, buried deep underground in a Mason jar somewhere for safekeeping.

“It’s simple. If you don’t tell kids about sex, then they’re not gonna have any,� reasoned otherwise sane-looking Austin high-school teacher Reginald Barrow. “I mean, duh! Where else are they going to find out about it, if not at school? Hello? McFly! If we can keep a lid on this thing, we may just be able to save these kids.�

While the textbooks that have been in use in Texas classrooms for the last ten years have frequently come under fire for mentioning that condoms exist, as well as letting the cat out of the bag that you have to be naked to “do it,� the new books have received nothing but support from delusional parents and opportunistic politicians statewide.

“It’s time to strike a blow against the liberal pro-sex agenda,� reasoned Clyde Hamms, some kind of local blowhard. “Texas wants the world to know, ain’t no kids doin’ the devil’s dance here. Texas teenagers are too busy reading bibles and beatin’ on queers, God bless ‘em. Too busy doing the Lord’s work to be fornicating and pornobulating.� After strenuous cross-examination, Hamms admitted to making up that second term.

“Texas teens are too busy having a good time to worry about you-know-what!� beamed Houston-area sex-ed teacher Mandi Smith. “Between sock hops and making your own ice cream at home, who wants to derail the good time by messing with S-E-X? That sounds like something California teens would do.�

“Fuck you, rednecks,� answered California School Board president Arthur Cambridge, when informed of Smith’s remarks.

The new textbooks, understandably light on content due to their inability to even address the stated subject, are mostly filled with stock photography of nature scenes and kittens, overlaid with inspirational Successory-style quotations meant to bolster a Texas student’s assumed Christian faith during the difficult adolescent years. What little additional text the books do contain is made up of fun activities for teens to try as alternatives to sex, including boating, macramé, and skeet shooting. Also included are handy exercises for when you get “that funny feeling downstairs,� like hitting yourself in the nuts with a hammer or slamming a breast in a car door.

Though Texas has long had one of the nation’s highest rates of teenage pregnancy, residents of the highly-religious state insist that those numbers will come right on down once they’re rid of schoolbooks encouraging kids to hump with their descriptions of safe-sex techniques and ways to prevent sexually transmitted diseases.

“Those young bodies writhin’ and copulatin’,� lamented Amarillo high school principal Ed Haste, becoming audibly aroused after calling the commune offices late one night with an unsolicited quote. “It just ain’t right! That stuff should only be in magazines, kept locked up in the drawer under my nightstand, not in our schools. Kids not in sexy magazines shouldn’t be having sex until they’re married, if then!� sobbed Haste, who later admitted to losing his virginity in the back room of biker bar at the age of eleven, a strange non-sequitur considering this reporter had just asked what time it was in Texas.

Unfortunately for Texas, the new textbooks have run afoul of federal education requirements, which stipulate that public-school students must at least have some vague concept of what sex is by the time they graduate high school, lest they be taken advantage of by more savvy classmates and teachers in college. After the filing of numerous lawsuits this week, Texas legislators have begrudgingly called for the printing of an additional sex-related pamphlet to supplement the new textbooks, though even this conciliatory gesture has come under fire from educators outside the state due to an alleged loose handling of the facts.

Among other dubious claims, the proposed pamphlets teach that when a man becomes aroused, his penis swells to the size of a watermelon, often resulting in social embarrassment and death. The pamphlet also claims that after copulation, it is customary for the female of the species to devour the male alive, leaving no trace. This passage was originally written in reference to the praying mantis, but through cleverly positioning of the text next to a photo of Glenn Close from Fatal Attraction, the pamphlet obscures this context. And though the assertion is not as-yet verifiable by science, the pamphlet also claims that each time a young man comes, it makes the baby Jesus weep.

Coming under particular fire is the chapter explaining how teenage sex causes a mutation of fetal DNA, resulting in babies with sharp, dagger-like teeth that burst through the abdomen when their thirst for blood becomes too great to bear. But interestingly, the even more spurious references to large, clawed creatures that inhabit the areas near Texas’ borders, making ever leaving the state an unwise proposition, have drawn little criticism from educators who question the wisdom of allowing Texans into their own states.

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According to the free calendar I got with my last tank of gas, October is Get to Know a Bug Month. Who knew? Personally, I think you should take this as your invitation to crack open a weevil and see what the juicy little bugger has got going on inside. I mean, really, what better time?


You ever stop to think for a minute about what sausage really is? I know, I barfed too. So to answer your question, just the eggs and toast will be fine.


And nothing at all against the nasty little things, but what exactly goes into making a dumpling? Several heaping spoonfuls of dump? That can't be FDA approved.


Speaking of such, you ever wonder about the fragments of chicken that come in a can of chicken noodle soup? To me, these things seem more accidental than anything. Like every once in a while a chicken gets loose at the plant and like a big idiot it runs right into the fan, and some leathery-lipped rube up in the watchtower turns to his buddy Earl and says "Yeeep. Looks like we got us a soup chicken." Personally, I don't eat anything that looks like the remnants from an explosion. McDonalds at least has the good taste to compact the miscellaneous chicken shrapnel they buy at wholesale from the minefields of Bosnia down into nugget form.


Few people know this, but you can get around quite a few sticky FDA regulations by slapping a McPrefix onto the names of food items that don't strictly conform to the guidelines set for their namesakes. It's like when you read on a package that something is "beef flavored." Give me a break, you hit a kangaroo with your jeep and a couple of bullion cubes rubbed on its ass qualify the whole damn thing as "beef flavored" as far as the law is concerned. It's a shady business to the core.


Who doesn't love a good musical? Me, for one.


I mean, has anyone actually ever seen Grease? What a nightmare. If I wanted to look at John Travolta that long I'd fly down to Hawaii and marry the guy, I swear. If TBS had any heart at all they'd help us out with some censoring blocks or something. Or at least they could cut out some of the singing parts.


Flipping through a Highlights for Children at the doctor's office the other day, I learned an interesting fact. Did you know that bats can hold their breath for up to an hour? Forgive me if I never sleep again, but that's creepy. How are we supposed to stop these things if they ever overrun the earth? Flame throwers? I've always said that if there was some kind of bat apocalypse you'd find me at the bottom of the pool at the Y, but that contingency plan is all shot to hell now.


I'm not sure what I'm going to pick as my new safe spot, but if the bat apocalypse comes and you haven't heard more from me on the subject, I'd check at the local Chuck E. Cheese's. This isn't really based on anything scientific but I'm guessing bats would find that place just as annoying as anybody else. Unless there's some weird bat religion that happens where they come to pray to the giant singing rat. I hadn't even thought of that, it might be the last place I'd want to be hiding out. Though I suppose in a pinch I could strap on a guitar and play it like I was in tight with the big, mechanical bat deity.


Thinking fast. If you ask me, that's the key to surviving any variety of bat apocalypse.

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Everyone loves seeing movies in the theater, because the screen is so freakin' huge. Plus when you throw shit at the screen at home, usually you're the one who has to clean it up later, unless you're smart enough to throw something the dog's not too proud to eat off the floor, like steak. But regardless, Omar Bricks has always had one major problem with seeing movies in the theater, and it's not the rule about discharging firearms during the exciting parts or the mandatory frisking for fireworks. No, the real pain in my remarkably-tolerant ass is the way they keep the movie playing like fascists even when you've really got to piss but don't want to miss the best part of the movie, which filmmakers strategically place right at the optimal time for a piss break to ensure repeat business.

Normally I just end up pissing in a trash can in the back of the theater, where I can still see the screen, but that's not a perfect solution either. Sometimes the trash is really full and you get splashback like from a cheap Korean urinal, and other times some 90-year old woman chooses that moment to pop into the theater to check and see if this movie has that delightful Kevin Costner in it, only to grab a stroke-inducing eyeful of your man-monster. So this was clearly a national problem worthy of serious scientific inquiry.

That put me at a slight disadvantage, since the only thing I know about science is that you can't freeze gasoline. But God never slams a door without kicking out a window, and my lack of technical know-how has always been made up for with ingenuity, which is another word for balls. And that's about as good an explanation as any for how I came up with the Movie Theater Remote Control®.

Because when I started thinking about it, not being able to pause a movie in the theater was only one of a number of problems with our antiquated movie-projecting systems. You also couldn't rewind to see cool parts of movies again, or fast-forward through the lame parts to get to something good. And the lack of a volume control was a ridiculous oversight. Only an idiot would try to sell you a TV without a volume knob, but we've been buying that same bullshit from the theaters for years. It was time to wise up and kick the man in the pants.

Most of the tech for the MTRC® came from plans I found in a dumpster outside of NASA. Did you know NASA locks their dumpsters? True as shit. And did you know you can pick a dumpster lock with a Bic pen and a Zippo lighter? That's one to grow on, kids.

The early prototypes didn't work exactly as planned, in fact the first one ended up blacking out most of Flatbush during a screening of The Country Bears. Not that you heard anyone complaining. Version 2.0 was far more effective, only too much so, if such a thing is possible. The problem was that while I was fast-forwarding through one of the many lame parts of Hidalgo, the MTRC® was actually controlling all the projectors in the multiplex at once, so although at least half the people there were being saved from lame bullshit, the other half were missing the best part of Starsky & Hutch, or at least seeing it at twice its intended speed. That's when I learned that as cool as a car battery can be for ultimate juice, sometimes AAs get the job done more appropriately. Plus you don't have to design a special harness to sneak a couple of AA batteries into a movie theater under your jacket.

Version 3.0 was actually a step backward, but for some reason it ran the Icee machine in the lobby just fine, so I kept that one for future experimentation. Version 4.01 was the real winner, and came in a sweet lime-green finish as well. I was set.

And for a few months, I was in movie-going heaven. Even with the rewinding for cool parts, and pausing for a couple of piss breaks, most movies only ended up taking about 45 minutes, since you didn't have to sit through any of the trailers or bullshit "character development" parts of movies. Sure, there were always a couple of whiners in the audience who wanted to see Barbara Streisand crying in her soup, but those knobs were in the minority and they didn't know who to whine to anyway since it wasn't like I was advertising my role as the dude with the remote. But eventually, I have to admit I got a little cocky and people started to catch on since I was the guy yelling "Bo-ring!" whenever Michelle Pfeiffer came on the screen and suddenly the movie would zap forward to a ninja fight or whatever.

I guess word got out, since things really came to a head last year when I paused The Bourne Supremacy so I could take a leak and when I came back, those fuckers were looking at me like I just ate the baby Jesus with Vidalia onions. I swear, these pious motherfuckers don't piss? Am I watching a movie with the cast of Waterworld again? Well excuse me, you inconsiderate dicks, but not everyone here can recycle their whiz and drink it again. Some of us have to pay eight bucks for a Mr. Pibb that's at least three times the size of our own bladder, and some of us are too modest to piss it down the aisle like Southern royalty. Next thing you know they're going to tell me these egomaniacs have never intentionally thrown up in the sink of the men's room at a fast food restaurant to make room for seconds.

Even getting banned for life from that theater wasn't a huge deal, since disguises are half the fun of going to the movies anyway. But what really sunk my battleship was that after the word got out, everybody wanted me to make them a MTRC®. First my neighbor Mitch, then Red Bagel, and then Roland McShyster. I don't even know what that guy wanted with one; I don't think he's ever been in a movie theater in his life. I asked him if he wanted to go see Star Wars last week and he thought I was talking about a reality show cross between Star Search and The Running Man.

At first things were going great, and I was making some nice coin to dick around in my garage, which has always been a dream of mine. But before I knew it, everybody had a MTRC® (or Griswald Dreck's knock-off version, the JapZapper®) and going to the theater, even in a fun disguise, became a total nightmare. Nobody could agree on what were the cool or lame parts of movies, and with 300 people in the theater there were so many piss breaks that watching a movie was like trying to play Quake on a Commodore 64.

Hence the sad but valuable lesson I've lived and learned to pass on to you, commune flock: If you ever find yourself in a position of absolute power, don't fuck it up by assuming that everybody's got good taste in movies. Bricks out.

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