At the zoo, I found myself surrounded by the most disgusting, stinky, vile animals I had ever seen: ugly, little human babies. They made the gibbons look like Mr. Belvedere. And as I watched the tiny bastards hoot and poop and dribble Fanta all over my new boots, I couldn’t help but thank the men and women who created the pill. I’m grateful that I live in a time when an active sex life doesn’t mean having to put up with one of those… things. I was inspired — I read all about it and found out that, as a man, I didn’t know the half of it.

When the pill was first produced in large numbers during the 1960s, it was the first instance in human history when the power of birth control was placed so firmly in the hands of a woman. Not that the girls didn’t always have the power when it comes to sex – I mean, just look at the penis. You think we can control these things? I’ll get turned on during “Pardon the Interruption,” yet my dick decides to take a power nap when I finally get the cutie from English class between my Spongebob sheets. But the pill finally put the woman in control of her sexuality by separating conception from the act of freak-nasty. The old saying, “When two people are getting ready for a date, the guy wonders if he’ll have sex that night, while the woman already knows,” is too true. No matter how many Lacoste shirts you’re buying, and no matter how many times you hit up that tanning booth, the girls will always run the game.

So you can imagine my shock when I was approached by one this weekend. “She’s in control,” I thought. “Why is she talking to me? Can she smell my sweatshirt? Oh shit, she’s a narc.” Thankfully, she was no narcotics agent but just a girl who wanted to ask me what I thought about my newfound favorite topic:

“Do guys have the right to ask me if I’m on the pill just as we’re about to hook up?”

It’s all over our town like M.A.C. lipstick on a sorority girl’s vomit: boys asking the ladies if they are on the pill, not when things are chill but as they straddle the loins of their lover, ready to get down to the good stuff. Normally, I’d say that communication is key when it comes to sex and that you should’ve hammered out these details before he got to find out if you were wearing tangas or going commando, but I know the heat of the moment: When the perfect song is playing, when the noise on DP has finally faded and you can hear the waves from your bedroom, when the Christmas lights hanging in your room make you body look more like the statue of David instead of that whole Gollum-on-a-hunger-strike thing you’ve got going on — it’s times like these that you’ve just got to fuck.

If two people are penetrating each other, or one person is penetrating the other one, both of them have the right to know about anything and anyone that has ever gone into one of your body cavities. This means partners, drugs and contraception — all of it. But the way this question is being asked isn’t a matter of safety or prevention – we boys aren’t curious because we are scared of winding up in a trailer park raising little bastards named after breweries. Boys want to know because they think it means they no longer have to worry about a condom.

So wrong.

I know it’s hard to turn down the lover of your dreams when they’ve got their face in your crotch, making you scream out in languages you didn’t even know you could speak, but you’ve got to let them know that the pill isn’t a “get out of condom jail” card for his little cockopoly.

This trend of thinking that a woman on the pill means that you don’t have to wear a rubber is worse than the Uggs-and-miniskirt, pre-faded jeans, aviators and CBGB’s T-shirt crazes all put together. UCSB students are using condoms about 50 percent of the time that they engage in vaginal intercourse, while they say students engaging in nasal intercourse report using a condom or booger douche as frequently as 80 percent. Either way, a girl on the pill is only half of the equation. No matter what, you should be wrapping up his package every time he wants to make a special delivery.

That was a pretty weak pun. How about we end things with a gross pickup line instead — ready?

How do you like your eggs in the morning? Unfertilized? Good, because I was going to come in your purse anyway.

What? I told you it was gross.

Daily Nexus sex columnist Dave Franzese always keeps reruns of “Pardon the Interruption” in the sack in case he needs to jump-start his package.