In Scottish literature, the highlight of the Burns Supper is the “Address to a Haggis,” that Robert Burns once penned to celebrate the Scot’s identity through food. Incidentally, I was refreshing my memory with the poem about haggis when I read that the Catholic Church wants to ban condom advertisements because the condom – a rubber sheath – weakens the moral fiber of the youth.
Note, of course, that the fundamentalist belief is that a rubber sheath is the source of such sin and destruction. Never mind that the condom is one of the best forms of protection against AIDS and other venereal diseases. Never mind that condoms can help reduce the incidence of HIV and other sexually-transmitted illnesses. Never mind that condoms represent one of the many ways to manage our population, to safeguard public health, and provides us all with the moral right to free choice.
Never mind that common sense dictates that the sight of a condom will not encourage promiscuity and stimulate one’s sexual unless that person has a condom-related paraphilia. Yet we’re not talking about just big powerful groups here: we’re talking about big powerful groups whose idea of morality and immorality is based on a backward, medieval sense what they say is right and what they say is wrong, and any other argument for reproductive health is a sin and should be subject to contrition and penance.
Never mind that that’s all bollocks.
I’d like to argue at length over the merits of the condom – or at the very least why the sight or possession of a condom should not encourage or enable sexual promiscuity unless you’re insane or in need of professional sex addiction therapy, but here’s my take of the issue… in the form of Robert Burns’ classic poem about that other piece of meat stuffed in a case, haggis. Here’s a passing (amateurish) poem about condoms.
Address to a Condom
Adapted from “Address to a Haggis” by Robert Burns
Fair far your honest, hearty face
Great chieftain of the sausage case!
Above my all, you take your place
Make sure to do no harm
That you can clothe the kind of grace
As big as my arm.
The groaning woman there I fill,
Her buttocks like a distant hill
My skewer changes into a drill
In time of need
While through her pores, diseases kill
So my seed be diseased.
Pro-life, see Cath’lic Church’s might
And cuts me off worldly delight
Leaving my entrails to scripture’s smite
To Hell’s depths or apex,
And then, oh! What an evil sight
To wear a bit of latex.
Then, each with dong in hand, stretched head-first,
As they give away, they are accursed,
The flavored rubber sheaths then freely disbursed,
Without Church’s nod,
Then the old goodman, just about to burst,
Cloaks his rod.
“Is there anyone who preaches from pulpit to pew,
That safe sex be the work of the Devil too,
Or in the eyes of the Lord sex be eschewed,
Spoken forth from the altar?
Looking down with sanctimonious attitude
On a piece of rubber?”
Poor angel, see him scratching his rash
From his so-called godly dander and dash
He could have bought the rubber in a flash
Before he loses his prick,
Bloody, blistered, with her pus-filled gash
Had he protected his dick.
But note the wise, the condom-clad
The trembling monster with inches to add!
Faps with his ample fist his gonad
It hurts not when he’ll jingle!
With joy and pleasure, he cannot be sad
A sheath, destiny he’s responsible.
You powers that make mankind your care,
With rubber sheaths, my doom you bear
But my free choices you shall not impair
In a public forum;
But, if I shall grant you a grateful prayer,
Lay off my condom.