nablopomo

nablopomo

Once again, my lack of ovaries is affecting:

1. our bottom line
2. my physical appearance, and
3. my ability to produce an angry, and wholly FORGIVABLE, rant on a lunartic basis.

Apparently, while I’ve been using the Internet over the past two years to acquire drinking alibis, other, far more enterprising individuals have been engaging in the lucrative gamete commerce trade.

And all this time, I never even knew that parenting types had even launched their first pioneer into cyberspace. But apparently the world wide web is practically engineered for these sorts of transactions. I suppose when you spend your childhood in a house with 8 people for every bathroom, you sometimes forget that privacy exists as more than a fringe concept in some novel warning of a fictitious dystopia on the horizon. What I’m saying, is that it’s sometimes hard for me to imagine that asking for sex cells from a stranger isn’t anything but perfectly natural and easy like Sunday morning. I mean, the question practically asks itself in my experience. When it comes to sex cells, sex sells.

This really sounds like I’m making fun of people who are likely going through what is very likely a traumatic and unenviable plight, and I’m hesitant to keep writing lest I find myself amidst a scenario described by Greg whereby I have to get on the phone with some egg-donor advocate and admit on radio (through my publicist) that I have a problem with rage.

But it’s not rage, it’s jealousy. Girls with far less need for cosmetic improvements than me are receiving upwards of $35,000 and elective surgery in exchange for their gametes. And here I sit at my desk with gametes pretty much all over my t-shirt, anyway, like the microscopic dried dollar bills of a busted piggy bank. But in spite of my mastery of the English language, I have been as of yet unsuccessful in my attempts to convince my wife of the benefits of donating her ova in my stead.

Me: Alex, you’re hot. You’re tall. You’re foreign. You want me to be happy. You meet all the criteria for helping me fulfill my lifelong goal of selling my eggs, nay, OUR eggs online.

Alex: Vut eez een eet for me?

Me: Well, each egg you give to someone else is one less potential kid who’ll tell inappropriate nutcracker jokes at OUR Thanksgiving gathering.

Alex: Eez there any reesks?

Me: Nope. None.

Alex: I mean, eez there any reesks for ME?

Me: Oh, not really. Bleeding from your bottom, liver failure, unintended pregnancy. Nothing that you and I don’t face on a daily basis anyway.

Alex: Eez eet legal?

Me: It’s the internet. WE MAKE OUR OWN LAWS, BABY!