2.10.2012

Go Wildcats!

Well, I didn’t get fired yet, but the guy I ask for help did, so it’s just a matter of time. Since business has been slow, I got short-shifted at work, and decided to catch up with some old friends from high school, which resulted in the following conversations:
“I feel a lot better since I joined a support group for wives of inmates. I found out about it after a guard groped me, but I’m still glad to have met these women. Oh, also, I found out there’s been a warrant out for my arrest in Bell County since 2007, so at some point when I go visit Mom I need to go get arrested and pay that fine.”
“I should make some money this weekend. The moving company I work for got hired to clean out a hoarder’s house. They estimate thirty truckloads, so I should get some overtime. We keep a keg in the truck for days like these.”
“I thought social work wouldn’t involve my having to explain that marijuana is illegal and has been for generations, but these people don’t read newspapers very closely. Oh, do you remember Alice? She and her husband got so good at Catholic birth control – you have to take your vaginal temperature, thank God for Martin Luther – that they got hired to teach it to everyone in the entire diocese.”
“I had to drop off a semen sample in case the estrogen makes me infertile, which doesn’t always happen but better safe than sorry. They were playing easy listening in the lab – it’s daunting trying to give a plastic cup a very special day while listening to a gentle, instrumental version of ‘The Girl from Ipanema.’”
I added a couple of punchlines and the marijuana conversation actually happened last week, but otherwise this is what’s going on among Temple High School alumni. Go Wildcats! For context, my friend safeguarding his, shortly her, fertility once accidentally stabbed my friend helping the hoarder move – and hoarder-move friend is the same one who used to live on a goat farm. (Oh, the grammatical Twister I play not to use people’s real names in case somehow being associated with me would injure them.)
Now, I don’t care that my friend is having gender reassignment – if anyone feels strongly enough about a situation to have puberty twice, they can count on my blessing – but, as with any time someone you know does something unconventional, I have more questions than I can politely ask. No one likes to be interrogated except my friend who married the inmate, who merrily volunteered how, since Texas doesn’t allow conjugal visits, one keeps the magic alive. I limited my questions about the transition to two:
Q: How did you pick your new name?
A: It’s what I would have been named had I been born a girl – well, more apparently a girl.
Q: So is getting your sperm stored, like, a one-time expense, or are there recurring costs?
A: There’s a storage fee, but it’s pretty cheap. It costs less than high-speed internet.
Q: High-speed internet is expensive up here.
A: I don’t know what to tell you. Maybe you should budget. Or have a career more stable and lucrative than writing toilet books.
Q: It’s a vocation.
A: It’s a trilogy called Delta Burke and Diarrhea: Meg and Chris’ Big Book of Bodily Mishaps and 80s TV Jokes.
Q: That’s the working title.
A: Oh, of course. I forgot you were also considering Shits and Shoulder Pads.
So now, my new game is imagining the threats the lab that stores your “essence” sends if you don’t pay your bill. My favorites so far are “if your account is not brought up to date, we will pair your sperm with leftover ova from Eva Braun” and “if this bill is not paid, your semen will be thawed and sent to a pornography studio to be used as ‘filler’ in case Todd Strokely starts running dry.” My new new game is imagining asking the bank loan officer for money to open a sperm bank. My new, new new game is imagining being the state sperm bank inspector:
Tulane Chris, Licensed Sperm Bank Inspector: Sir, have you just been cramming Ziplocs full of genetic material in around the edges of your kegerator?
Dan of Dan’s Discount DNA: Times are tough.
…I smell a sitcom. Well, I smell something.

14 comments:

Not *Not* Stoned said...

I found out rather recently that my dad got a vasectomy decades ago, and the normal procedure is to first store some sperm in a bank, in case, I don't know, all your living children die in a plane crash and you decide at 45 to give it another go. Anyway, he and my mom eventually got divorced and he moved out, but the bills for his sperm storage still got sent to my mom's house. At first she forwarded them on, but then my dad got a 29 year old girlfriend, so my mom stopped forwarding the bills and also didn't pay them, hoping they would let the little bastards thaw and prevent any Midlife Crisis Babies from fucking up her child support. The sperm bank kept sending chiding notices, but they also never threw out my dad's sperm despite YEARS of nonpayment. I found that kind of sweet actually. Like, that bank takes it's job seriously. They are there to preserve sterile men's sense of promise and virility, and goddamnit they will NOT take that responsibility lightly. So, yeah. Sperm banks with a strong moral center FTW.

Brett Minor said...

I never know sperm could be stored for a person. I just thought they were a type of re-distribution center.

Anonymous said...

I fully acknowledge that is a stupid place to get picky over such a thing, but you don't take your vaginal temperature. A woman's body temperature goes up when she's ovulating. You take your temp orally to track the changes, just like you normally would if you were sick or something. Unless you normally take it anally, which, if that's your practice and depending on what "it" is, you don't have to worry much about pregnancy anyway.

Anonymous said...

holy shit, tulane chris is from temple, texas? small world. good luck with the diminishing temporary job!

Samuel Anderson said...
This comment has been removed by the author.
Samuel Anderson said...

Way to go Wildcats! Very proud of you guys.For more interesting information click here.

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