As everyone knows, he or she who decides to take that plunge into the Antarctic winter, with no hope of escape, surrounded by insane administrators and drunken hoodlums, is a special sort of person. Not “special” in the sense of unique, talented, or adventurous, but “special” in the sense that there is probably something wrong with them that only an Antarctic winter can fix. They may have ten thousand dollars worth of traffic infractions waiting for them in Texas; they may not have any other idea of what to do with their life; or they may simply have a screw loose, but in all these cases “just one more” winter is the solution that first presents itself to that deranged mind that looks out through the vacant and glassy eyes of the Antarctic Winterover.
Unfortunately, a hundred years of sensational British accounts of the Antarctic have created a stereotype of the Winterover that few modern Antarcticans can match. Stemming from these accounts, the Winterover is a hungry, rugged type able to build and furnish a survival hut with only three seals and a pocketknife. The Winterover never questions the expedition leader, and will follow the leader into the middle of nowhere for no particular reason, but will do so boldly, leaving behind only a trail of blood and a journal of great deeds. The Winterover is always ready to die, and scarcely shrugs when marooned for life on an ice floe.
What self-respecting being wouldn’t want to get close to a Winterover of this caliber? Early accounts imply that the first men who played up their Antarctic experience to women in even the most obscure ports of New Zealand and Australia were promptly and thoroughly bedded. In those days before the Internet and television, it was the sexy and romantic media of books and newspapers that for Antarctic workers paved the way into the dreams of nations and the skirts of fair lasses.
Compare this to the post-millenial situation, in which Antarctica has been so diluted by history that one can’t throw a beetroot in Cathedral Square without hitting someone who has either been to Antarctica, or who knows someone in Antarctic upper management. Furthermore, the Internet and television have made Antarctica so accessible to the masses that everyone has taken a “virtual tour” of the South Pole or witnessed a McMurdo Thanksgiving in the comfort of their own living room.
It is in this humbling era that the average Winterover, deprived of affection and sex for the better part of a year, steps off the plane in Christchurch or greets the incoming plane of summer personnel, hoping for an enthusiastic mate to embrace them, to acknowledge their strenuous accomplishments, and to perform on them a hearty round of fellatio or cunnilingus.
But to the horror of the Winterovers, their reputation is not one of rugged might on the world’s last frontier. The summer personnel and the populace of Australasia see only a sickly mob of deranged workers with translucent skin, shifty eyes, and a tendency for inappropriate giggles. Were it not for the alcohol jaundice and the terrible gases emanating from their fried-food-encrusted bowels, perhaps it would not be quite so noticeable that portions of their brain have been disintegrated by the long dark winter and exposure to a ceaseless stream of managerial idiocy. No, to have one of these creatures hitting on them in the bar is for some the ultimate terror, and it is in the interest of repairing this cultural chasm that Big Dead Place announces the Fuck-a-Winterover Program.
The Fuck-a-Winterover Program is designed to restore the magic dignity of old-fashioned conquest to those who wish to engage in the horrifying act of coupling with one of these unhinged winter mutants.
- I would like to join the Fuck-a-Winterover Program. How do I start?
The only requirement for joining the Fuck-a-Winterover Program is that you fuck a Winterover. Careful though, by the time you see them, these confused beasts may be so delirious that they won’t understand what you are trying to do to them. They may think that your real intention is to weasel into a job in their department or to skua their stereo.
- I’ve fucked plenty of Winterovers. What’s so special about the Fuck-a-Winterover Program?
As everyone knows, anyone who visits the geographical South Pole receives a cheap, mass-produced certificate from the South Pole Human Resources Representative. This certificate of conquest bears the date and is run through the office printer to personalize the certificate with one’s name. Boxes of these certificates lie around the office, barely more significant than the dust motes that collect on them. In that spirit, Big Dead Place has harnessed this insignificance in order to bring you the I-Fucked-a-Winterover Certificate in the form of a .pdf file (105k) that may be printed directly from this website. Based on the honor system, this certification states that (you) on (such-and-such date) did hereby fuck a Winterover. Big Dead Place authenticates this claim upon the valid signature of a Winterover.
- I have a signed I-Fucked-a-Winterover Certificate, so now what do I do with it?
Due to legal circumstances, we are unable to recommend particular frame shops, though there is at least one in almost every town.
- Is the Fuck-a-Winterover Program designed solely for men?
No. Any Winterover signature will validate the I-Fucked-a-Winterover certificate.
- I’m a Winterover and my significant other is also a Winterover and we’ve been fucking each other all winter. Are both of us eligible for the Fuck-a-Winterover Program?
Of course. You may print out as many certificates as you like to authenticate your mutual conquests or to cheapen your relationship.
- Some asshole just came up to me and shoved this certificate in my face and said I should sleep with him. What the fuck’s your problem?
Our problem, apparently, is that we prefer to draw the map from the territory, not vice versa. We can’t answer for the problems of others.
- As I’ve heard other single women down here say: “Though the odds are good, the goods are odd.” Any tips for how to get the certificate with the least fuss?