It's not really beyond any sort of doubt that the number of people in the world is growing. And despite the seemingly enormous amount of space on Earth—I mean, I can stretch my arms out both ways and everything—there is an awful lot of talk about the fact that there are just too many fucking humans here. And those fucking humans have resulted in more humans who'll end up fucking, and the whole wretched, fluid-soaked process will continue.

In the last 40 odd years, there's been over 4 billion of us who've been thrown out of the safety and warmth of our mother's canal in order to cling to this shitty rock and be miserable. It's an awful lot of people. A lot of people. A whole fucking bunch of people. Did I mention how many people? Lots.

Overcrowded truck in the desert
"Ugh, sorry guys, can we make a quick pit stop? Gotta pee again. Accidentally chugged all my water for the week before the trip."

And it's not really as simple as us just being farted out all covered with goop, having the cord cut, and then being told to just get the fuck on with it, because us humans, we're rather delicate little bastards and we require a lot of looking after.

Can you just tell people to stop having sex? There are thousands of people I can think of who in no civilized world should be allowed to breed. Food, shelter, warmth, love, drink, masturbation, a variety of cheesy snacks. There are many things that make up our survival criteria and the little list each of us have that dictates whether or not we're happy little clams. And to come up with the goods, we're driving ourselves and the planet to a fit of exhaustion. In order to feed, water, dress, shelter, and heat ourselves, we're working away like motherfuckers and using a great deal of whatever it is we can get our hands on. This laptop screen I'm staring at like a vacant imbecile (which I am) probably has the blood of thirty young Asian slave kids on it. Or "slavelets" as I like to the call them. Not that I call them often. They never pick up.

And we're not even doing a very good job providing shit for people. There are millions of people the world over who don't have a roof over their heads, food in their belly, or a charger in their phone. They don't even have a phone. No phone! Imagine that. I bet you can't. And that's not in some war-torn fuckhole in the middle of nowhere. It's right on our doorstep. Though in my case my doorstep does indeed lead to a war-torn fuckhole. Amazingly, I managed to find a nameplate for the door that says as much too—the internet's so wonderful.

But what do we do? It's not like we can just stop fucking can we?

Well, I wouldn't know, as I seem to not be able to start fucking in the first place despite my enthusiasm and lava lamp. But thought it's a miserable thought to have to try and think of, some sort of action will probably have to be taken as it will only be a few generations and they won't be able to move for each other. Though, it'll make rubbing yourself up against strangers much easier, both to execute and to explain, which for me will at least be blessed relief.

And as we are, we're not even that safe. In a desperate attempt to give us all (or at least those who society has deemed worthy) somewhere to live, there are houses being built in incredibly unsafe locations. Uneven ground, floodplains, on the lips of active volcanoes, and in the sex-dungeon of 70's television stars, people are setting up dwellings in all sorts of unsafe locations. And if you have three feet of floodwater in your kitchen or you're strapped to the "Anus Pounder 5000" with some long-forgotten local radio DJ jumping around, greased up and naked, you may want to think about trying to find yourself somewhere new to move.

But is it that simple? Can you just tell people to stop having sex?

I can. Jealousy is a powerful emotion and I have a very long, ceiling-bashing stick.

But can we say it to society at large?

It's a hard one, for sure. There are thousands of people I can think of now, probably myself included, who in no civilized world should be allowed to breed. There's a whole bunch of parents who lost interest since their kid was born. But they lost the receipt and couldn't take it back to the shop, so, like an old fridge or a mattress, dumped it at the side of the road by some hairy men in a white van.

Though you may not want someone else's fuck-trophy, you may want your own. If you're a woman, you may feel you've missed out on having yourself split in two, pushing so hard you send a torpedo-speed turd flying into the face of some harried midwife, then sown back up. If you're a man, you may miss out on the sensation of a woman trying to castrate you with a Stanley knife because you asked her which shelf of the fridge the butter was on. You misogynist pig you, equal butter rights between genders! Don't oppress my dairy!

So, whether you decide to squeeze one out yourself, or take over someone else's, you've got a long road ahead of you. You're going to have to educate it, which is a lot harder than just shoving it in the nearest red-brick rape shed you can find in order to be leered over by the creepy moustachioed headmaster. It's a lot deeper than that. You have to teach it life skills, how to get ahead in the world, and how to deal with the army of other flesh-cockroaches we're up against. And how are you supposed to teach this stuff to a dribbling fart machine when you probably don't have a fucking clue about it yourself?

Whether it gets worse or better, it seems like we're stuck between a rock and a hard place. Most of us hate each other wildly, but every now and then—when the courts deem it acceptable and not in contravention of the stipulations of your injunctions—we stop hating each other long enough to have disappointing sex. And that may result in a little fleshbag of your very own.

Just…whatever you do, make sure you keep the receipt.