Child, your daddy come from Escondido, California on a Greyhound bus. Saw him first in the big terminal, downtown and, let me tell you, it wasn’t no love at first look, uh-uh. Don’t know his proper name even now, but he had a 200 IQ and a mean—oh, real mean—temperature of 196 C., what with all that liquid nitrogen they stuck around him. Fact is, child, your father arrived fast froze within this here clunky metal canister. There was plastic straws full of his ice cold man-seed inside, plus egg yolk t’help make it more fertile—could’ve been you turned out a chicken rather than the human child you are. I put him in me, straw after straw, day after day, month after month, whenever my ovulation time come on—till finally you caught fire like grass and kindling blown by the desert wind. Hon, if you have an Oedipus complex, it is sure gonna be some strange thing to stare at, yes sir . . .
The Repository for Germinal Choice (Nobel Sperm Bank) first began putting prize seed on ice in 1977. By 1979 RGC had broken its hymen, so to speak: the initial sperm shipment was made then. Thus far two children have been born. Between twenty and thirty women are getting cold-studded right now: six have become pregnant. Twenty donors, each a mega-brain scientist, are in the freezer tray. This may not sound impressive: still, those twenty have given enough germinal stuff for eight hundred inseminations per month. No donor is paid. The semen will be provided free, some few incidental costs aside—deposit on your liquid nitrogen canister, say, or Greyhound fare (more if your paterfamilias is sent, stork-wise, by Emery Air Freight). Overall cost $500 or thereabout: cheap in comparison with most mechanical siring programs, I am told. From May to September 1982, as the recognition coefficient for RGC grew, more than four hundred women applied. The Nobel Sperm Bank isn’t a Saturday Night Live one-liner. Unlike your lap, it won’t just go away if you stand up.
Comments