Then again, SAM’s a pretty big guy in general. In fact, he’s a beast.
Standing in at six-foot-two, his size and mass are about equal to the top 10-percent of all military recruits.
I like to give SAM a hard time about his head. I hope he doesn’t mind me blogging about it.
Sometimes I wonder if there are any brains in that noggin. There are days when I could have sworn I heard water sloshing around in there!
But I’ll give him the benefit of the doubt. At SAM’s age, I would imagine his brain is fully developed with a nice thick skull. But you never know. His weird habit of talking on his cell phone for only six minutes at a time makes me wonder. Dude doesn’t like to talk much.
Okay, okay! SAM isn’t really one of my buddies. He’s a figment of scientific imagination created back in 1996 to estimate safe exposures to cell phone radiation.
His given name is Standard Anthropomorphic Man.
SAM’s brain is unlike any human I’ve ever known. He has no hypothalamus or medulla oblongata (I love saying that). Nope, his brain is perfectly uniform. In the 90s, scientists poured liquids of differing densities into SAM’s plastic dome to measure how much radio frequency (RF) radiation reached specific parts of his “brain” as a cell phone is held ten millimeters (about 1/3 of an inch) from his ear. (Davis, 75)
When was the last time you held your cell phone 1/3 of an inch from your ear?
SAM may have liquid for brains, but at least he practices cell phone safety. Then again, Blackberry phones come with instructions suggesting that you hold your device at least 0.98 inches away from your body.
She tells me when I have an appointment. Keeps me from getting lost. Plays my favorite songs. And she lets me kick some major butt in Words with Friends.
I seldom leave home without her. You can say we’re attached at the hip.
Over the last day or two, my iPhone and I have grown distant. I’m not sure if I can trust her anymore. I even cheated on her today. I left her zipped away in my backpack while I used my landline. Twice.
Yes, I have a landline.
While knowing how much my baby oozes with love and tenderness, I’ve also been well aware of the fact that she emits quite a bit of radiation.
No woman is perfect, I guess.
Maybe it all began when I heard Dr. Oz on a local radio program stating that he would not allow his kids to have cell phones. Quite a statement for a man with such strong commercial ties.
1. Did you know that most cell phones come with a notice that says, “do not hold closer than one inch from your body”?
2. Did you know that insurance companies refuse to provide coverage to cell phone companies and operators in case of claims of health damage from long-term operation of their devices?
Is my cellular love a black widow at heart?
I thought I was playing it safe. I won’t even talk on my iPhone if I have to hold it up to my ear. This is partially out of sheer laziness, but I’d also rather not hold a device pouring out radiation at the rate of two billion cycles per second right up to my brain. I lost enough brain cells in college! So instead, I use my earbuds and chat away with my phone stowed safely away in my pocket. So I thought.
Today, as I prepared for Thursday night’s UW Radio show with the author of Disconnect, my relationship was dealt a major blow.
This one was below the belt.
Turns out my pocket may not be the best place for my iPhone. I may be saving my brain, but I’m hurting “my guys”. You know, my little soldiers. Mom’s grandkids. My Olympic swim team. Or as my buddy Mike calls them: my seeds.
Turns out that there are multiple studies from multiple nations showing that men who keep their cell phones turned on in their pockets for hours a day have fewer sperm with more deformities. (Davis, 138) In fact, upon the advent of the radar, sailors would use the new technology for more than detecting German fighter planes. They used radar as birth control! Standing in front of high frequencies of electromagnetic radiation just seemed like a better idea than having a baby mama (and baby) overseas.
The electromagnetic frequencies (EMFs) don’t necessarily kill sperm. Rather, they hamper their swimming skills. With each ejaculation (skeet!), up to a half billion swimmers blast off at a starting speed of ten miles per hour with a common target, a waiting egg. Some get lost or run out of steam. Others die at sea. But as you know, baby-making only requires one sperm to reach its final destination. The best swimmer wins.
It looks something like this:
According to Davis, “if the sperm were the size of a human, a successful one would need to stay on course and swim from Los Angeles to Hawaii to arrive at its target”.
I want Michael Phelps sperm. But if I had to guess, a lot of my guys are on the injured list. And we’re a few men short.