Back to the old drawing board
I was discussing my newest theory with Paul the other night. I was driving, and he wondered why I insisted on cruising slowly through the crimey ghetto streets of our small New England town. "Why, I'm looking for crack dealers," I told him, squinting into the icy fog, trying to suss out whether one of those immaculate Victorian facades concealed a crack den, preferably one that welcomed newcomers and novices to the sport.
The only thing to do was to explain.
Paul is the brains of our operation. He quickly spotted the flaw in my theory. "I think," he said, "it's more likely to be a highly localized version of Murphy's Law."
"Explain," I commanded, slowing to a crawl so that I could peer into the big bay window of the painted lady in front of us. I was disappointed to see that the occupants were engaged in an activity no more nefarious than watching Fox News, a sure sign that they'd already consumed whatever crack they'd been able to acquire.
"Well, do you think crack whores want to get pregnant?"
According to Paul's theory, which has supplanted mine in plausibility, crack facilitates pregnancy only in those least desirous of it. It follows that turning to crack would only render me less fertile than ever before.
This theory, while useful, has fewer commercial applications. I doubt the pharmaceutical multinationals will be clamoring to hear about infallible birth control for infertile women.