The Sperm Bank

My Oncologist suggested it would be a smart move to store some sperm in a reproductive clinic. The volatile nature of chemotherapy can leave men with weak swimmers and blank rounds of ammunition. Having a feeling the world may one day need my seed, I set up the appointment post-haste. After chest and bone marrow biopsies, scans, blood tests and countless chemo needle jabs, I thought depositing some genetic material in a spunk bank wouldn’t be so bad. WRONG. Leave it to the medical community to take the fun out of corralling my tadpoles.

Exhibit A: a 30 year old leather recliner with sanitary paper towel. The towel is there as a reminder that hundreds, maybe thousands of men have performed the same feat in the same chair, a notion extremely counterproductive to the task at hand.

Exhibit B: The complete and utter wrong reading material. WTF is this?

Ok, never mind, found it!

Still, a lack luster collection. I’d be happier with free wifi. No one has successfully mangled the midget to playboy since the invention of the internet.

Exhibit C: a Casablanca poster. This wouldn’t get me hot if I was an 80 year old church lady. So now I have to deal with Humphrey Bogart and Ingrid Bergman bing awkwardly present while trying to bop the bologna. How about a high resolution shot of Kate Upton to right this wrong.

Much better.

Exhibit D: I was being timed. They’re fucking with me now, right?

Exhibit E: post coitus paperwork. If this was waiting at the end of every man’s game of closet frisbee, men would be excellent at paperwork.