By Dawn Wilson
If you’re going to steal a vial of sperm, don’t do it from here:
The Museum of Natural History
Because in all likelihood, it will be tainted, inbred, or have suffered from the trip.
Although, if you can’t read, and you are set on becoming a mother—
Tick tick tick tick tick tick tick
Then I probably won’t be able to deflect your foregone desires regardless of the moral imposition you will be inflicting on the future of our society. Even if you were to get pregnant the natural way, you would be inflicting a moral imposition on our future.
Did you know?
You make children cry.
You make your neighbors cry.
You make time travelers cry.
You make aliens from other planets cry.
You make your mother cry (probably).
I do not guarantee that you make your mother cry. She may be just like you. Or worse. She is probably a crack whore.
Ooooh, snap. I gotcha one good, ayse!
You’re staring at me with your head tipped slightly on its axis.
You have no idea what I’m saying.
“Everyone else” has children.
Which is untrue.
Close your mouth.
Annatita Wom-wom was convicted of pregnancy, and although Jail looked imminent, no judge could quite figure out what to book her for, and her public defender slept through the trial, which made Miss Wom-wom come across as a clean unbiased jujube of a fabbity human being, a careful, well-manicured hot toddy.
A museum curator charged her with theft, plain and simple, because men in bowties often come across as simple.
The judge listened to the charges. “How do you plead?” he asked Miss Wom-wom.
“On my knees, usually,” she responded.
The judge gave a There-You-Have-It gesture to the curator, who demanded the return of his sperm.
“You don’t understand how sex works, do you, sir?” the judge asked.
“It wasn’t my sperm, your honor. It belonged to the museum.”
“It’s my understanding that the sperm would have degraded by now, yes?”
“Well… yes. But she needs to be punished.”
“Oooer,” said Annatita Wom-wom, licking her lips. She bent over. In her new position, she became disoriented or forgetful and licked the drool from the lips of her counselor, who continued to sleep.
“That was sensitive material. Irreplaceable. Once it was injected into her body, yes, of course it was tainted.”
“Hey!” Miss Wom-wom put her hands on her hips and appeared insulted. Then she reached one long red nail (three inches in measurement) to her lips, cocked her head, and said, “I don’t get it…”
“It seems to me the simple solution,” the judge said, “is to wait until Miss Wom-wom has given birth. At that point, extract the DNA of the child. Study that.”
“Hey! You ain’t sucking the blood out of my baby,” Miss Wom-wom protested. “Even I know that’s not legal.”
“With all due respect, sir, we have plenty of frozen DNA. It was the sperm itself that was… a miraculous discovery.”
The judge looked at the breasts of the defendant. “Yes, there are a few things of that nature today in the court.”
“It’s the sperm that was important. She stole it. She stole it straight from the laboratory.”
The judge shrugged. “You may pray the child is a boy…”
The curator threw his hands into the air. “Tainted!”
The judge leaned over his desk. “If I may make a suggestion… I suggest you take the defendant home… enjoy her company… and study the off-spring. Is this not the Missing Link?”
If you are socially inept and spend your days among mummies, dust mites, and parasites preserved in amber, then do not attempt to find a wife here:
Small Claims Court
Because one of these days, you’re going to be convicted of experimenting on your offspring.
Even if the boy does grow to be seven feet tall with a distended cranium.
You just can’t win.
You were born to know your place.
And yet the judge allowed the curator to sign a marriage license with Annatita Wom-wom as well as the adoption of the unborn fetus, and he sent them home to explore each other.