I was leafing through the San Diego Union Tribune the other day (which is just about the only thing one can do with the Trib, save wiping) when I saw it. It was only a small, sixteenth-page ad, but it filled my heart with such joy the likes of which I hadn't felt since the first time I saw Porky's. There, staring me in the face, was the answer to all of my financial problems. It read, simply:
"Hot damn!" I thought to myself. "Finally I can make some money at a job that I really enjoy. Besides which, I have years of experience! And to think I've been throwing all that money down the shower drain."
So I ran to the phone, dialed the number, and made an appointment with the cheerful lady on the other end. She informed me that I would first have to give a couple of free samples, but if they checked out okay I'd be picking up 35 bucks a pop, twice a week. If you're a little repulsed by the concept of "whacking for dollars", consider the fact that this equates to something like three bucks a stroke. This is what is known as a good deal.
The following Monday I found myself seated across from a nurse at the sperm bank. The very first thing she did was hand me about eight pages of forms requesting personal information. I had never realized that you had to fill out a resumé just so you could splooge into a jar. And this was one hell of a resumé. They wanted to know things about me that I myself didn't know. Perhaps I just haven't been around much, but I don't recall ever having been asked to report my left testicle's diameter before.
Now it's a little known fact that nurses at sperm
banks are extremely shy about their work. I suppose this stems
from living with the knowledge that, at any given moment, there
is probably a guy spanking the monkey on the other side of your
office wall. But for whatever reason, they are very bashful,
and this means that I was able to have some fun with them. For
example, after finishing my paperwork, the nurse decided to ask
me a few thousand more questions:
Nurse: When was the last time you… uh… well… you know…
Steve: Palmed the pud?
Nurse: (blushing slightly) Uh… yes.
Steve: What time is it now?
Nurse: (making a check on her clipboard) Okay. Now you understand that, often, we are unable to accept prospective donors because their sperm doesn't freeze properly.
Steve: If the happens
to me, can I come back and take another whack at it?
Finally, the questioning period ended. The nurse handed me a little jar, had me write my name on it, and escorted me to the exalted Place of Donation itself. Namely, the bathroom. The bathroom?! I drive almost 30 minutes to get here and all I get is a goddamn bathroom?! Christ, I could get this kind of action at home. After all, they do have a night deposit box (bit of an ironic name, isn't it?). Still, I must admit, they did have one hell of an amazing selection of magazines. They probably would have been easier to read, though, if I didn't have to peel the pages apart. For those of you who've ever heard a guy say that he reads Playboy for the stimulating articles, I can tell you it's a crock of shit. There wasn't one bit of jism on any of the article pages, although I do believe there was some snot on the joke page.
As it turns out, they rejected my sperm. Supposedly,
the majority of my goo died when it was frozen. Well what the
hell did they expect it to do, jump for joy? If you dipped me
into a vat of liquid nitrogen, I'd probably die too. Nonetheless,
I felt pretty substandard for a while, until they explained to
me that very few samples actually make it past the sperm bank's
tough criteria. I was able to obtain a list of some of the "undesirables".
Study it well; it might save you a trip:
So I guess it's back to the shower for me. Bummer.
It's so much harder to read the latest issue of Spanking Lesbians
under rushing water.