The magic fluid

Jacking off. Wanking. Strangling the Kitten.

Call it what you may. It still leads to the same predestined end: the load blast, our nation’s greatest natural resource.

Allow me to extol but a few of its many virtues:

It’s Slangy! More so than the actual dick itself, the money shot inspires countless nicknames:

Splooge, Man Chowder, Hot Man Mustard, Dong Water, Donut Glaze, Spunk, Number 3, Population Paste, Gentleman’s Relish, Skeet, Load, Man Fluid, Penis Butter, Manthrax, Gizzum, Love Juice, Man Cream, Spew, Seed, Baby Gravy, Pearl Necklace, La Leche, Jizz, Wad, Pimp Juice, Baby Batter, Nut and Man Jam.

As other body fluids go, blood is the more vital, but though it may spew like a fountain in horror films, how many sobriquets has it earned?

Tears are poetic, yet still one-name wonders. And lymph? Please! Back of the line.

It’s Dynamic! Upon reaching climax, semen is thrust outward at ten miles per hour. Nothing beats either spraying all over your own face or dousing that flexing dumb guy who wants to buy your term paper all the way from across the room.

Unless you’re Horst Shultz, holder of the world record for long-distance ejaculation at an astounding eighteen feet, nine inches.

Bravo to Horst, who coincidentally also claims the title for tallest man (twelve feet, four inches) and has presumably laid numerous wives to rest.

They died in ecstasy.

It’s Profound! Where is Disney’s Travels of The Tadpoles documentary complete with folksy narration by Morgan Freeman already?

Sure, penguins are cute and gay, but our little wrigglers convey true pathos of their own.

An average spurt contains forty to six hundred million swimmers, making up only about three percent of actual semen. These determined bastards then haul ass like cliff-diving lemmings through the vaginal canal to fertilize a waiting egg.

I mean, if that’s your thing.

Maybe they just crash like so many beached whales upon the welcoming shores of your hunky personal trainer’s lips. Whatev. Their life cycle ends in only a few days and of the millions who begin the journey, a mere handful will survive the distance to penetrate the egg. Or end up hurled into a molten lake of stomach acid as they’re washed down with a vodka stinger.

The point is, it’s beautiful, IMAX-ready, and just begging for a Celine Dion theme song.

It’s Enigmatic! Stop and ponder that there’s a microscopic society of Snorks inhabiting your inseam that dies and is reborn in the amount of time that elapses between Britney’s public blunders of-the-moment.

Maybe it’s the biological grandeur of it all or just the Rohypnol taking effect, but that deserves some existential rumination.

In one sense it’s cosmic, our bodies housing a hyper-efficient and marvelous word, mirroring galaxies of distant stars and tailed comets hurtling across the void.

In another it’s deeply terrestrial, one single sperm cell following the path of our very first incarnation that dragged itself from the primordial swamp and set out into an unknown landscape proliferated with untold dangers.

It’s the ultimate allegory for Humankind’s very place in the universe.

So think about that, because my head hurts and now I have a nosebleed.

It’s Immortal! The Pop Shot can rightly lay claim to being the movies’ greatest and most enduring special effect. It requires virtually no technical preparation aside from a quick hit of Viagra and some encouraging slapping.

You don’t need a massive budget to pull it off. Unlike Stop Motion or CGI, it hasn’t had to adapt in the slightest to stay edgy and relevant.

While King Kong swatting down biplanes from atop his spire or Chuck Heston parting the Red Sea are still breath-taking milestones, it’s the sight of Peter North’s volcanic eruptions that we can watch over and over again and never tire of.

From Gang Bang Bukkake to Oral Cum Shots, loads a’ flyin’ are the sole film feat that be described as “ropey” and still hit the mark.