Flap flap went the wings of the birds over the high cliffs. Every once in a while, they would poop on the scientists, which, at these altitudes, was quite acidic and corrosive. It’s OK, for this reason, they had developed poop-resistant flak jackets. At least up here, these mostly fearless men could be safe from everything else. It was cold. It was February. Some of the dudes were freezing their big balls off. Ah, but it was big balls that had gotten all of them in such trouble. You see, a messed-up virus was circulating among the rest of the human race. At first, there were scattered reports that were kinda hard to believe. A housewife had started to nuzzle her husband one night, and had proceeded to tie him to the bed and fuck him to death. This began happening with greater and greater rapidity. And, worst of all, it happened towards the end of the football season. Those who played professional football barricaded themselves in their stadiums and always wore full armor. Especially that variant of the chastity belt called the athletic supporter. Other, lucky men hid in caves or on mountain peaks. The rest of the men were largely exterminated. Apparently, this didn’t need to happen. A Japanese sexologist wrote a seminal study declaring that if these men had been able to find the G-Spot on the regular, these women would have been less likely to be understimulated. Another more intuitive theory was not posited; there were just not enough lesbians to go around. How this had all happened was even less clear. A scrawny young man named Cletus, once deemed too scrawny to play for any of his school sports teams, had become distrustful of humans and instead became a judge for a most prestigious dog pageant. He and the dogs were sympatico. He was chill with the Chihuahuas. He bullshitted with the Shih-tzu. With terriers, he was positively Terpsichorean. So was it really a surprise that one day, in the overnight of the dog days of a summer dog-a-thon, he “screwed the pooch”? Sadly, this was no euphemism. He let loose on a dachshund named Hortensia. Bad choice. Hortensia was so, well, tense, not to mention inbred, that when the Intel human chose to play hide the sausage, the dog exploded into a million airborne pieces. Some of these blood particles floated through the air and landed on women with compromised immune systems. It just clicked for these women that all these restrictive sexual practices (breeding sex never for pleasure) ought to be turned back on the men. Which meant even the nice ones, like chess players, who spend so much of their lives in the world of a game where the Queen has the most power of movement. “Is there not a flop house for me?” bemoaned a Nobel laureate in marine biology, so was 60 years old and had only just learned how to spell clitoris. Oh, sad old boys! Always looking up, never down. It’s OK. Fear no more the heat of the sun.