Nehal Patel might be one of the most important people in the history of the Internet without a Wikipedia page.

I guess I shouldn’t be surprised: Wikipedia devotes a total of 184 words to Jim Ellis and Tom Truscott, the creators of Usenet.

But unlike Usenet, Patel’s creation is relevant today. Patel is the father of the Internet meme.

Lolcats, Advice Dog, Courage Wolf, Trollface and every god awful meme in some way owes its lineage to Patel, who during his freshman year at the University of Illinois dedicated his university Web space to telling the world about how Mr. T ate his balls.

The awful page spawned countless copycats, several webrings and an entire branch in Yahoo!’s old directory format.

But most importantly, Ate-My-Balls managed to grab mainstream attention via an incredibly rambling article on Salon.com and coverage by the Miami Herald’s Dave Barry.

While I never made an Ate-My-Balls site, I did end up hosting one: Faelan Ate My Balls.

In 1999, TCI came to the northern Detroit area with promises of the first dedicated, always-on Internet connection that cost less than $10,000 per month. At $49.99 per month, it was a steal. You just had to hide your Unix box from the installation crew.

When they left, my friend Justin and I got together to cannibalize what was left of the family’s broken Packard Bell Legend 100. The box hosted several friends’ sites, and held up well given the limitations of cable modems.

But this post is not about my short-lived server. This post is about Faelan.

Faelan Peregrin Aragorn first appeared on the Internet with the Faelan’s Sweetheart Contest. Or rather, his parents Jonathan and Sarah Aragorn did.

The page was made to look as though it as prepared by an innocent little boy who was looking for a girl who was “fun, slender, gentle and nice, smart, romantic and loyal.”

What can I say, back in 1999, the mainstream Internet was not as specialized as it is today: no one was seeking a “cancer-stricken cocaine whore who loves rough plushie sex and bondage.”

“Hi! I am a cute (people say) young (eleven) boy (for sure) and I’m going to have a CONTEST to see which GIRL in the whole world will be the best SWEETHEART and GIRLFRIEND for me!”

All Faelan’s site was missing were blink tags.

While the Web mocked and giggled at the Faelan contest and made Ate-My-Balls pages about the little monkey man, more serious people were asking serious questions.

Joab Jackson, a Baltimore City Paper Online columnist, wrote:

Could an 11-year-old really have designed a Web page as elaborate as this one? Could his parents really have approved of him looking for a girlfriend over the Internet? Could any parents be stupid enough to let their daughter participate in such a thing?

Today, Jackson branded a lulz-killer. At the time, we simply never heard of his article because Google didn’t exist and Webcrawler was a piece of shit.

Faelan updated his site to clarify his quest. He wanted a girl with “nice parents who believe that love and touching are good, and think that you should have the freedom to do all these things.”

I’m sorry, I missed that, is he talking about fucking?

In sprite of complaints lobbed at the Web host, the page could not be removed because it was not technically engaged in illegal activity. Solicitation of sexual contact with a minor is actually legal in Oregon.

In October 1999, the contest ended and 11-year-old Faelan vanished into the darkness of the Web.

Where did he go? I don’t know. Neither did Jackson, but he being a professional journalist did then what I do now: he investigated.

Jonathan Aragorn, 44, father and alleged holder of degrees in clinical psychology, education and computer science, was convicted on multiple counts of solicitation to commit sexual abuse and criminal conspiracy to commit sexual abuse. He was sentenced on February 22, 2000, my 18th birthday, to 19 months in prison and a five-year probation.

His wife was found guilty of conspiracy and joined the three-year probation club.

If you are interested in learning more about the Faelan case since Jackson’s original report, you can read the State of Oregon v. Jonathan and Sarah Aragorn.

Reading this, the crux of the parents’ defense was that Oregon Statute 163.345 provides “In any prosecution… in which the victim’s lack of consent is due solely to incapacity to consent by reason of being less than a specified age, it is a defense that the actor was less than three years older than the victim at the time of the alleged offense.”

Since this statute kept Faelan out of jail, Mr. and Mrs. Aragorn said it should apply to them as well.

The appeals court slammed the Aragorns and gave Jonathan a “Go Back to Jail Free” card. Apparently that statute is only good if you are an accomplice to underage sex.

Looking back on this curious case with eight years of new knowledge, I have learned a very important lesson: if I one day have a son, I should not open a cyber-harem for him in Oregon.

For those seeking a happy ending to this sordid story, Faelan finally found a legal sweetheart and married her on Christmas Day 2011 in St. Lucie County, Florida.

When to start sex education is an oft-debated topics for schools and parents. We debate it because, as humans, we pretend our intervention can halt the inevitable.

A few years ago, a local school revived the great debate when it instructed its third grade boys to play sperm and crawl through a series of holes to unite with a girl and make a baby.

While I certainly give the program points for its imagination…

Third grade? Are you kidding me?

Sex ed, the American way!

I grew up in the United States during the Ronald Reagan years.

I remember the weekly Legend of Zelda slot of the Super Mario Bros. Super Show being canceled so they could run footage of cranes busting apart the Berlin Wall on Friday, December 22, 1989: Day Two of the demolition, so let there be no question of my ’80s street cred.

In the two decades since, I have learned that humans will fuck regardless of the age at which they begin sex education.

In Michigan, “sex education” began at age nine. For us, sex education was a video and nothing more.

When the day came, our four fourth grade class was split up. The girls were led across the brown carpet and out through the white-brick hallway by three female teachers.

The door slammed shut.

We boys were left behind with the male teacher — you know, the lone male educator in the entire school.

A glance at the elementary education system could easily leave one with the impression that American schools are required to pack their staff with neurotic women — ones who insist the cure for the Y-chromosome is a double-dose of methylphenidate — but that’s another topic.

And so we sat confused, staring ahead at the screen that was supposed to answer all our sexual questions — oh, and to explain what the fuck sex was.

As a nine-year-old, the closest I had come to sex was seeing a Madonna video and watching the kid was on his fourth run through the fourth grade doodle penises on my homework.

Nevertheless, the lights dimmed and they rolled-in media center television that was always seatbelted to its cart.

The cathode rays crackled to life to reveal blue static.

Life: it begins and ends in piss and shit

As the blue of the dead signal gave way to images, we were greeted with a field of flowers waving in the breeze.

The scene changed to a lone bee buzzing about a flower and digging around inside it, coating its hairs with rich pollen before taking off. The voice-over spoke brief words of pollination, carpels and stamen before switching to a cartoon that, to use the vernacular of our times, was full of epic fail!

The scene began with blue, which at first made me think the VCR had failed. I soon realized that this was intentional when the bottom of the screen turned brown.

Suddenly and without warning, a female fish swam by. I could tell she was female because she had a Ms. Pac-Man bow in her scales. As she swam by, what appeared to be her asshole opened and a pile of black bubbles fell out all over the floor of the pond.

Moments later, an excited fish without a ribbon swam by and casually pissed all over these bubbles.

What happened next was terrifying. In stunning three-second-per-frame animation, the bubbles developed into baby fish, which then broke out and swam away for reasons left unexplained. The video then made a hard cut to a 30-second clip of a baby suckling at a woman’s breast.

The tape ended and the blue signal returned. The fever dream of sexual education was at an end.

Our obviously bored teacher asked the last thing you should ask a fourth grader after such a video.

“Any questions?”

If I had the vocabulary of an adult, I might have asked, “Just one. What the fuck was that?”

The lasting damage of early education

That fish video, and apparently all similar early attempts at sex education, fucked with an entire generation.

It doesn’t take a degree in psychiatry to recognize that the surging in interest in water sports and cornholing began in a post–fish-video world.

I’m willing to bet that in twenty years, Japan will again rise to the task and provide the eight-year-olds of today with the “unbirth” fetish porn they are sure to crave.

While I’m sure these new classes are far less traumatizing than the video we saw, I can’t help but wonder if they are really needed. Aside from some basic clues about the life cycle, we were left knowing nothing about sex. Condoms had to wait for the eighth grade.

While I have no evidence to back this up, it is my hunch that polls about sexual activity among elementary and middle school students fail to take into account that virtually every student lies about being a virgin to avoid being laughed at — even if they don’t know what a virgin is.

Now, to be fair, the video was not our only sexual education experience.

Four years later, we were again sent home with permission slips so we could sit in a room with the history teacher and ask any questions we had thought of during the last four years. We wrote our questions on slips of paper and dropped them into a sealed box “to avoid embarrassment.”

That turned out to be a good move given the stunning number of boys asking things like, “What is a dildo and how do I use it?” Today, such a question would probably require a discussion about safe practices in urethral sounding.

Our third and final bout of sex education came another four years later, this time as an entire semester on love and marriage taught during my senior year at a Catholic high school. For one week of this semester-long course, we were once again allowed to ask questions about sex.

One girl immediately raised her hand to pose a question.

“Is it possible for my boyfriend to pee in my vagina?”

Clearly, the fish video was not unique to my school.

No matter what language we use, death is a sticky topic for us humans: especially in common speech. Reporters can use that sterile, icy word to describe the passing of a celebrity, but we mostly avoid it in polite conversation.

Your cat can die. Your phone’s battery can die. Your computer’s network connection can die.

But grandma? Grandma doesn’t die: she passes away or passes on.

Many cultures are uncomfortable with death. The ancient Egyptians simply said said someone journeyed west. That might not seem so bad in China, where the journey west was great fun for the Monkey King. Chinese people prefer head off to a whole new world! It’s more exciting than Japan, where dear grandma simply ends up lost.

World-over, you would be hard-pressed to find a culture more terrified of death and dying than modern America. Every doctor’s office in the US has a wall of pamphlets ready to introduce the odd new idea.

When an American’s number is up, he just takes the big sleep. If he’s not ready to move on up, he will go out kicking.

Americans like to kick a lot of things, especially buckets and cans. The less aggressive prefer to kiss the dust before they’ve left the building for a little slumber.

If they’re hungry, they can bite the big one or bite the dust. Queen fans seem to be the biggest on biting. I’m guessing the Eagles’ listeners prefer gambling: they cash in their chips before checking out to go climb the Golden Staircase – or, if I may nod to Led Zepplin, pay the piper and climb the Stairway to Heaven.

And what does an American do once he’s up there?

Well, after it’s curtains, he’ll be cooking for the Kennedys — if he’s a good enough cook, he might get a chance to join the angels in the sweet hereafter. Regardless of his culinary skills, he can rest assured that he will be joining the majority.

And we don’t like to think about this, but not everyone gets to climbs the staircase. Some people have to walk the downward path and spend eternity in the dread abode.

Every now and then, one unlucky guy simply fades away and ends up on the road to nowhere. If you one day find yourself stuck with nowhere to go, I suggest you roll over and give Byron’s dreamless sleep a try — it sounds like a good chance to get in a few eternal yawns.

If sleeping and staircases aren’t for you, the gangsters say you can give up the ghost and go sleep with the fishes — usually this one requires some assistance to pull off. If there’s no time to get a pair of cement shoes, you may just end up six feet under — but that’s a great place to be if you’re going into the fertilizer business!

However you choose to fade out, it seems a great chance for one last party. I’ve never been a fan of formal-wear, but traitors don’t seem to mind. They go to a necktie party when they die. Serial killers get ride the lightning – I saw that one while it was under construction at Cedar Point and it looked like a coaster fan’s wet dream.

When they’re not kidnapping Korean fishermen for ransom, pirates cover a lot of ground both here and in the hereafter. Sometimes they take a long rest on the Fiddler’s Green, but if they haven’t had enough briny sea-air, they can flag down the Flying Dutchman for eternal adventure.

The unlucky ones get dragged down to Davy Jones’s Locker.

In this modern age of science, computer geeks have one of the most creative ways to get exported to a flat file — they’re formatted. I suppose it works because, these days, most of them are Hindus.

Writers are less lucky. We tend to end up lost in translation after moving into upper-management. After that, we just go permanently out of print.

Almost every one of these adventures sounds preferable to plain vanilla death.

Yet in spite of how gaily they jest about the next great adventure, Americans squirm when someone casually mentions the “D” word.

When you get down to it, death is just a part of life, and it’s one most aren’t prepared to face. But we have to face it eventually. George Carlin said death is the one thing that’s truly democratic: everyone gets it once.

But I think I have a solution to our departing dilemma: a word so when it’s time for each of us to express-mail our soul to the god of our choice, none needs bat an eye. It’s perfect, because despite that last god reference, it works for atheists too.

“Recalled.”

Doesn’t that sound nice? “Grandpa was recalled while he was on the table. He won’t be joining us for Christmas.”

Imagine the dialogue between a nurse and a man who’s wife died in labor. “Mr. Smith, I’m sorry to inform you your wife’s labor had complications. She was recalled.”

Factories can recall bad products: some even recall old products. Car companies do it all the time — especially Firestone, famous for its tires that explode after 500 miles.

Let’s face it, products deteriorate with age, and some are way too dangerous to be allowed on the road: look no further than any 60-year-old granny behind the wheel of her Cadillac STS Child Shredder if you need an example.

So lets all try to bring this word into common use. It’s sterile enough for the politically correct, and it’s accurate.

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Cum sociis natoque penatibus et magnis dis parturient montes, nascetur ridiculus mus. Sed vitae arcu velit. Nullam dapibus mi ut mauris faucibus eu ultricies nulla scelerisque. Proin ultrices fermentum justo. Pellentesque est velit, porttitor sed fringilla a, imperdiet at nunc. Donec sagittis sem ac est vulputate vitae imperdiet magna tristique. Sed vitae lectus dui. Nullam eu est lectus. Nulla augue odio, rutrum vitae sodales sit amet, semper dictum turpis. Pellentesque pretium imperdiet adipiscing. Suspendisse potenti.

Etiam luctus felis eget libero tempus sit amet luctus risus rhoncus. Aliquam aliquam rhoncus felis at accumsan. Morbi facilisis sollicitudin posuere. Curabitur varius semper tempor. Cras consequat, sem id ultricies sodales, est nunc rhoncus mi, et sodales ligula orci vehicula felis. Vestibulum bibendum, leo ac iaculis ullamcorper, neque dolor scelerisque lacus, in cursus nunc risus ornare nunc. Suspendisse pellentesque suscipit orci, at feugiat eros accumsan tristique. Suspendisse ut massa et est eleifend sodales. Vestibulum porttitor laoreet elit, non dignissim ipsum pulvinar sit amet. In sit amet quam id tortor molestie ornare. Etiam euismod posuere sapien, ac feugiat augue rhoncus sit amet. Curabitur a quam non eros pharetra sollicitudin. Aenean condimentum eros non nunc accumsan aliquam. Sed et tellus dui, non condimentum dolor. Donec ligula turpis, sollicitudin non tempus id, pulvinar accumsan dolor.