By Team Backbeat
By Amber Taufen
By Jon Solomon
By Tom Murphy
By Jesse Livingston
By Alejandra Loera
By Stephanie March
By Tom Murphy
If there's one thing in the world that doesn't make sense, it's how most offspring cringe at the discussion of Mom and Dad making sweet, sweet love. For most of us, revulsion ensues when the parental units lock the bedroom door to "turn in early." And menopause, high blood pressure, elephant balls and vaginal dryness have nothing to do with the ick factor. It's simply the fear that the genitalia that popped you out keeps on kicking. It makes you feel more like a hairball salvaged from the bathroom pipes than the little angel, stork-delivered from heaven, that you know you really are.
Think again. Your parents were slap-happy fuckers, too.
Furthermore, it is your patriotic duty as an American to have hot sex the way your soil-tilling forebears did, to populate the land from sea to shining sea. Real Americans love sex. And that has everything to do with Foreigner, the classic-rock band that, despite its recent break with lead singer Lou Gramm, is going long and strong into its 27th year. Foreigner is middle America's Marvin Gaye.
In fogy-fucking fact, odds are you were conceived to Foreigner. After all, these all-American (but mostly British) rockers' tunes fairly drip with hormones. Gen Y, without further ado, here's the making of you, in traumatizing detail:
"Feels Like the First Time" blasts from the eight-track on a bedside table littered with empty Coors Light cans.
Your virgin mom trembles with anticipation as your been-around-the-block dad sticks his hand up her plaid miniskirt.
As the chorus refrains "I would climb any mountain," Pops ascends the mighty curves of your sweet young mommy.
Your diggity daddy does one better with the next line: Sail across a stormy sea. Hot damn! His vessel spelunks the dark trench's bottom and tickles that elusive sea sponge deep inside your almost-mama. And that's when the floodgates break.
Stuck and grinding, Dad's like a satyr going into convulsions -- rrrgh! mmff! -- while your mom's sweat-soaked thighs radiate enough heat to melt the tape deck, even as it insists, "You're as cold as ice."
"Not yet!" she moans as "Hot Blooded" shakes the rickety ceiling fan. She flips that "Dirty White Boy," aka your dad-to-be, like a little bitch. His eyes twinkle like a supernova ripe to explode as he screams, "Let me come!"
"All right, all right!" she pants, and strangles his nethers.
"Sweet Jesus!" he bellows as his body shakes.
And in that primal, sweaty, ferocious burst, a beautiful baby is made: you.
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