(Or: What I Learned When I Should Have Been Reading Poetry Instead)

By Bernice the Fly

Well, darling, here we are again—you and I, contemplating the sort of biological particulars that make one long for the sweet oblivion of a dry martini. Someone, somewhere, thought it absolutely essential that I become acquainted with the reproductive arrangements of the animal kingdom. I can only assume this person has never been invited to decent parties.

What follows is a catalog of nature’s more questionable design choices—the sort of anatomical peculiarities that make one wonder if God wasn’t having rather too much fun with the whole creation business. I present them to you as they were presented to me: with all the delicacy of a sledgehammer to crystal stemware.

The Argentine Lake Duck: When Mother Nature Dabbles in Hardware

The Argentine blue-bill lake duck appears, at first blush, to be exactly what one orders when requesting a duck: feathered, sensible, the sort of creature that might vote responsibly in local elections. One imagines it has modest savings and writes thank-you notes promptly.

Then biology rears its ugly head.

This gentleman bird unfurls—and really, there’s no delicate way to put this—a corkscrew contraption that would make a sommelier weep. Sixteen inches of pale, spiraled enthusiasm, complete with what can only be described as a bottle brush tip designed to—how shall I say this?—tidy up after previous romantic callers.

The lady ducks, bless their practical hearts, evolved accordingly twisted architecture that spirals in the opposite direction. It’s the only time in recorded history that plumbing has struck me as genuinely feminist.

The Echidna: Four-Star Accommodations

The short-beaked echidna is a dear little pincushion of a creature—the sort of animal that looks as though it listens to folk music and believes in the inherent goodness of humanity. It blows snot bubbles for air conditioning, which should be its most regrettable characteristic.

Alas, life is rarely so kind.

This innocent-faced mammal conceals beneath its quills a four-headed scarlet apparatus that rotates like some ghastly Christmas ornament designed by committee. Some dedicated scientist—and really, one must question the grant process—created a 3D model of the entire affair. Inside, the plumbing branches like a candelabra at a particularly unfortunate dinner party.

Certain specimens can perform ten consecutive encores, which is more stamina than I’ve ever shown for anything, including conversation.

Barnacles: The Shut-Ins of the Sea

Barnacles, those crusty little hermits of the maritime world, have solved the problem of immobility with what can only be called ambitious architecture. Possessing the longest equipment relative to body size in the entire animal kingdom—eight times their length, if you must know—they simply extend their offerings like some sort of underwater periscope and hope the neighbors are receiving callers.

Those barnacles unfortunate enough to reside on wave-battered shores have developed particularly robust versions, which suggests that even in nature, location is everything.

The Leopard Slug: Cirque du So Very Wrong

The leopard slug, that ghostly wanderer of damp evenings, has turned romance into aerial theater. Two slugs ascend a tree, suspend themselves from a rope of their own making—already concerning—and then proceed to extrude bright blue appendages from the sides of their heads like some fever dream of a milliner gone mad.

After their exchange, one slug consumes the mucus rope. Because nothing says “let’s do this again sometime” like eating the furniture.

Creatures With Trust Issues

Your beloved house cat, that purring angel of domestic tranquility, conceals barbed equipment designed to encourage ovulation through what can only be called aggressive persuasion. I shan’t elaborate—some knowledge is too terrible to share over afternoon tea.

The bean weevil approaches romance like a particularly unpleasant medical procedure, armed with spikes intended to puncture the female into compliance. If anyone attempted such tactics with me, they’d find themselves punctured in return—with a hat pin, repeatedly.

The priapium fish has relocated its entire operation to its chin, sporting what appears to be a combination bottle opener and garden tool. One can only imagine the dinner conversation.

The Mathematics of Excess

Koalas—those drowsy ambassadors of eucalyptus-scented goodwill—maintain duplicate equipment, because apparently one wasn’t complicated enough. Sharks, rays, and snakes have all adopted the “two is better than one” philosophy, which strikes me as rather like carrying spare umbrellas: theoretically practical, actually ridiculous.

And Finally, Us

We humans, those self-proclaimed pinnacles of evolution, possess proportionally generous equipment paired with testicles that could charitably be described as “economical.” A chimpanzee’s reproductive accessories weigh more than a third as much as its brain; ours manage less than three percent of brain weight.

Draw your own conclusions. I certainly have.

There you have it, darling—your education in nature’s more questionable design choices. I do hope it’s been enlightening. As for me, I’m going to have that martini now. Several, actually. Some knowledge, once acquired, requires immediate dilution.