The Way I Heard It with Mike Rowe - 38: On Self Abuse

Episode Date: January 17, 2017

Please sir, can I have some more?

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This is the way I heard it. Reverend Sylvester was the youngest of 17 children, so it should come as no surprise to learn that he was opposed to all methods of birth control. Moreover, the good Reverend decried with great passion any activity that might thwart mankind's sacred duty to go forth and multiply, including the unseemly business of self-abuse. When it came to preaching the perils of manual gratification, you might say, Reverend Sylvester pounded the pulpit. Every Sunday, he warned his congregation in vivid detail of the eternal consequences that awaited those who dared spill their seed upon infertile ground. Indeed, he even wrote a book on the subject entitled On Self Abuse, a seminal work, if there ever was one, and a bona fide bestseller during the great masturbation scare that swept the country in the early part of the 19th century. Yes, the great masturbation scare was, in fact, a real thing, but it would be premature to suggest that

Reverend Sylvester addressed the matter single-handedly. The fact is, many preachers in the early 1800s believe that shaking hands with the false prophet would put you in the fast lane on the road to perdition. But more importantly, many doctors were firmly convinced that badgering the witness and beating around the bush were leading causes of depression, epilepsy, tuberculosis, insanity, sterility, and of course, blindness. Thus, the medical profession's preoccupation with burping the worm gave great credence to Reverend Sylvester's belief that kindling Satan's wood posed a clear and present danger to the spiritual health of our great nation.

But unlike his fellow clergyman, the Reverend took his aversion. to rubbing the Buddha's tummy a step further. You see, Sylvester believed that all desire was connected and that anything enjoyable, including the food we eat, would ultimately lead young men to engage in more and more one-handed spear cleaning. So the Reverend launched a Sunday morning offensive against all manner of dangerous foods, beginning with pork. Yes, I know.

It's tempting to characterize his assault on bacon as another form of slamming the ham or holding the sausage hostage or flogging the bologna pony, but that would miss the point of his overall contempt for anything that tasted good, including dessert. Along with his disdain for flesh, Reverend Sylvester also preached that processed sugar and flour were 19th century gateway drugs and warned that. the women of his congregation that either ingredient would awaken in their sons and husbands a burning desire to explore every nook and cranny in the garden of earthly delights. In other words, give your kid a cookie. And the next thing you know, he's drunk on moonshine, beaten the bishop, and covered in heathen stew. Now, to be fair, the Reverend practiced what he preached. Using only water and whole grain flour, he created a new food utterly absent of temptation, a completely tasteless cracker, totally void of flavor and almost impossible to chew. Why? To provide a simple form of nourishment that wouldn't trigger in America's youth the insatiable desire to pull the gole. anxious mothers, desperate to save their handsy spawn from eternal damnation and their sheets from the eternal stain of liquefied souls,

bought these bland and unsavory crackers by the case. Did they work? Did anyone actually eat them? Who knows? Polls on such matters are not exactly reliable, though studies do indicate that teenage boys in 19th century America were not all that anxious to discuss the frequent. with which they auditioned the handpuppet. All we know for sure is that the anodyne crackers, bearing the Reverend's name, sold better than they had a right to,

and went on to become a national symbol of self-control and clean living, right up until 1931, at which point the National Biscuit Company assumed production and took the Reverend's legacy into their own large and experienced corporate hands. Shockingly, the National Biscuit Company was more interested in making money than curing blindness and saving souls. And they believe that maybe the best way to accomplish that was to produce a cracker that didn't taste like sawdust. So they decided to add the gateway drugs, sugar and processed flour. The result? A major breakthrough in the dessert category and a major setback to the legacy of the preacher. who believed any boy who shook it more than twice was playing with it.

On a personal note, I have skimmed through on self-abuse, and speaking only for myself, I'm afraid I found the Reverend's warnings regarding the one-gun salute to be unpersuasive. His new and improved crackers, however, occupy a place of prominence in my personal pantry. Like you, I've enjoyed them, crumbled over ice cream, and ground into pie crust.

But mostly, I prefer them around a campfire, smothered with melted chocolate and molten marshmallows. It was the Boy Scouts, you know, who figured that one out nearly a hundred years ago. And ever since, people have said, can I have some more? Reverend Sylvester didn't live to see the advent of smores. But it's fun to imagine his reaction if he were still around. because the preacher, who believed the consumption of sugar and flour, would lead a young man to quirk his own bet, is today remembered not for his advice on restraint, but rather for a decadent, mouth-watering confection of unparalleled indulgence enjoyed by horny degenerates and gluttonous reprobates all over the world, and held together by the sinful crackers that still bear his name.

thanks to the Reverend Sylvester Graham. Smoors are here to stay. And if you've never had one, you really don't know what you're missing. In fact, you might want to keep one hand free when you eat them. I know I do. Just in case I'm overcome with the desire to, you know, grab another one. Anyway, that's the way I heard it. If you work in University Maintenance, Granger considers you an MVP,

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