I know it's my fault in the following cases:
the credit crunch
women's eating disorders generally
any women (should there be any) who drive badly
women's lack of ambition
bad information / misinformation
my own health
the weather (weather girls are not to be blamed)
for not working till I die and coming home with beer on my breath
not being able to take the beer then having sex with under-age girls while knowing perfectly well what I do
Add to that my natural tendency to rape, pillage, murder, bully, fart aloud, and bring pain to my mother by being killed in some roadside bomb incident, and admitting the fact that...
"To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he's a machine, a walking dildo."
- Valerie Solanas,
"Men love death. In everything they make, they hollow out a central place for death, let its rancid smell contaminate every dimension of whatever still survives. Men especially love murder. In art they celebrate it, and in life they commit it. They embrace murder as if life without it would be devoid of passion, meaning, and action, as if murder were solace, stilling their sobs as they mourn the emptiness and alienation of their lives."
- Andrea Dworkin
"The proportion of men must be reduced to and maintained at approximately 10% of the human race."
- Sally Miller Gearhart
...I am obliged to agree that from the cradle until adolescence I should have been kept fully informed that everything I do or think or feel is irredeemably awful, and that even as a grown-up poet, I am, as Wendy Cope has it, a TUMP (totally useless male poet).
I therefore make the following very modest proposal.
I am still in possession of a set of genitalia. I admit they're not great, or at least I have never considered them great. They have been minor agents in the production of two children (and very nice too, thanks to their mother, even the boy) but in doing so they have fulfilled and completed their natural function.
Nevertheless I think they may be properly comestible given a little care and imaginative seasoning. The Hungarian poet, Virág Erdös, in her poem, 'Vision: Game Over' (the poem is included in the New Order anthology I have just edited) suggests:
Testicle Baked in a Roll. In the Admiral Bar apparently they use male apes, but I have a suspicion they add a little something extra. I particularly like them a little overdone.
It's not a big meal but might do to for a light lunch, like tapas, maybe a little couscous and relish on the side. Being Hungarian I cannot resist a dash of paprika (must be Hungarian, cherry peppers are delicious), or at least a splash of Tabasco. Erdös likes them overdone but I suggest serving rare. Gently fry in virgin oil. Could serve in breadcrumbs though we know how fattening that is, but why not? Just this time? You deserve it!
The younger the testicles of course the fresher and less potentially fattening. The operation could be performed shortly after birth with minimal pain, much like circumcision. Serve with fresh salad and, ideally, eat outdoors. Excellent for a summer picnic.
As for the genitalia of older men - if they have got this far - the taste does not improve, but they can be used to fill out mixed grills. Alternatively preserve and tin and dispatch to the hungry in the relevant parts of the world. Waste not, want not.
*Being contrite regarding my male faults it is quite certain that I have not exhausted them, so welcome any links to further incentives to self-chastisement and mutilation.