ROCKET SCIENCE: I Sing the Body Mongol

Look, I don’t need to unwind any DNA from my system to find out I am not one-tenth Norwegian or six-sixteenths Cherokee or any other fraction anything else because I know my genealogy. It was taught to me through word-of-mouth sources as good as a mountain and the rest is history so well documented that it affects you, no matter what your New-Age DNA test has revealed.

What’s worse is that I may be related to you, though no mail-order anthropogenic test will confirm such a connection.

It matters to me that there is a blood trail in history that reduces me to a quantum speck of mankind because I can look at myself in the mirror each morning and say, “You, my friend, have roots in savagery and you are not alone.”

No angel begat you or I. Better let that sink into your brain and best become acclimated to the characteristics of your primitive origins so you may be comfortable when trying to define your life. It ain’t pretty.

I go into my backyard and I beat my bare chest much like a monkey from the movies. Surrounded by mysterious insects, underground rodents, overgrown foliage, uneven ground and the space between molecules I scream: “I am a son of Genghis Khan.” My neighbors never bring me fruit come Christmastime.

It’s a fact, at least for now, that my Italian heritage is relatively pure and I am descended from a lineage with “potential roots in the Middle East, India, China, Mongolia and Southeast Asia,” according to Y chromosomes. I come from a line of sixteen million men directly descended from Genghis Khan.

So may you. More than eight hundred million men on the face of this Earth are descended from a mere group of eleven which include Genghis Khan—and he was not begat from Joshua who begat Jeremiah who begat Bingus who begat Yankus who begat Bongo the Blessed.

It’s disturbing to many men who praise the white race and believe fables of purity through the veins of Great White Hunters and saints from the House of David. So, they don’t believe it. However, in an empty room with a Neo-Nazi I could prove it; I could destroy the believer with a single finger to the Adam’s Apple because my blood flows with the tyranny of the Mongol breed.

In every aspect, the strength and the talent ignite my genes, though not equally, and I am as much a stiletto butcher as I am a Fellini on fire, a flesh-and-bones warehouse for the swimming tails of life handed down from 2100 BC, potent to share the seeds of the nomadic tribes far from the curbs of Brooklyn, New York.

It’s a strong male-dominated chromosome, proven by the potency of what I have reproduced through genes far more mixed and commingled with pansy pieces of mankind’s victims. I have given the world two sons, a number that pales when compared to the countless children spawned and spread across the European landscape by Genghis Kahn alone, no less his sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons and their sons … get me? Those are some ‘somes, eh?

The story goes that Genghis Khan was killed in action during the fall of Yinchuan. Another story says it was illness and yet another story says he fell from his horse. Another story says that he was ill while fighting, mortally wounded and died on his horse before he fell from it. Either way, his reproductive system went with him but it was too late to stop the heritage—the ‘somes were seeded and the damage done.

I am here writing this to prove it.

Mathematics tells us that you, too, may be a product of the Genghis Khan bloodline. You may want to be the great-great-great-great grandson or granddaughter of a Native American prince or princess or the seventh son of the seventh son of a Scottish rogue but if you have any such connections the odds are good that they trace to Genghis Khan as well.

So you are stuck being a member of my family in the scope of all mankind and that is just a start on the journey to Lucy who jumped from the limbs of a tree and said in her simian brain language that she could traverse on two legs, not four. As she merrily skipped along, Lucy had no idea that the natural process of giving birth would lead to men numbering one less than a dozen that would plunder through the mating process to eventually produce you and I among the herds and the masses, among the strong and the asses.

Look, it’s too damned bad if you don’t want to believe me.

Written By

Known for his comedic acumen, Cotolo has made his living as a writer and a performer all of his life and during the lives of others. He is the author of the novel License to Skill and has co-authored its screenplay version, Molotov Memoirs, a collection of short stories. The Complete and Unabridged History of Japan, an epic novel, and a serious novella, Sweet Shephered. Frank Cotolo was born in Brooklyn and has worked in broadcasting, film, theater, music and television. He is currently the host of Cotolo Chronicles, one of the Internet’s first live broadcast radio shows.

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