May 5, 2013 by The Friday Facts
Previously, on Rat Drawn Daddy, you’ll recall that our hero had just been asked to pleasure himself in the name of medical science (Wey-hey! how many sequels open with that line?). Now, with the deed awkwardly done (spared you the details of that one – you’re welcome), it had become a race against time. Our hero had to make it back in time for a very special someone…
Things have certainly changed since my parents’ day. Gone is the milkman, gone is the dunnyman, and I don’t even fully understand what the dustman even did in the first place, but he’s gone too. Of the old school dudes, only the garbage man remains. But with natural selection being as it is, new ‘men’ have risen up to take their place. Men like the Jizz Man.
I’m pretty sure the Jizz Man wasn’t around in my parents’ time; he’s more a modern phenomenon. He drives around in a truck that’s like a giant incubator, transporting semen samples from clinics to ‘The Lab’, which I can only imagine is some gigantic, magical, Wonka-esque wonderland, only with spunk instead of chocolate (Hmm…I can only imagine what some of their waterfalls would be like). The Jizz Man is as elusive as the Snow Leopard. You only have a ten minute window in which to deliver your sample then – poof! – he’s gone. Just like that. Much like Wonka, No one’s ever seen the Jizz Man, but I imagine him to be big white and cuddly. Kind of like Poppin’ Fresh, only shaped like a sperm rather than a…thing.
But none of that mattered right now. What did matter was that I’d made it to the clinic in time for him. Even with a couple of minutes to spare! This put today’s wank in the running for the most successful wank I’d ever had.
I marched into the clinic and slammed my jar of freshly-reaped seed down on the counter. The woman at the clinic seemed genuinely happy for me as she led me into a room marked ‘Room 1’. “Now,” she said, clasping her hands together, “do you have the form?”
The form? The form. Fuck, the form! FUUUCK! I was so caught up with unloading into this tiny jar and rushing out of the house that I’d completely forgotten about the form; the one from my doctor that told them who I was and what tests to do. “Can you take it without the form?” I asked, desperately. She looked at me like I was some kind of fucking lunatic and, as she did, I was overcome with the chilling realisation that without the form I was quite literally a random stranger who’d just walked in off the street, handed her a jar of spunk, doffed his hat and ridden off into the sunset. Man…the god damned form.
So back home I went.
I don’t remember much about my journey home and back that day. I know that I broke pretty much every road rule known to man, and I can only assume that I left Blues-Brotherian levels of cars piled up in my wake. But as I screeched around the final corner and fanged down the home straight I began to get the sense that I was going to make this; that I’d beaten the Jizz Man.
With seconds to spare, I stormed up to the clinic, booted down the front door and held my doctor’s form aloft as proudly as a knight of the realm wielding Excalibur itself. Like a gaggle of village peasants, the women of the clinic huddled together and whispered excitedly (“he’s done it, you know.” “Impossible!” “Could it really be?” “Yes, I’m sure of it – he’s beaten the Jizz Man!”). I knew the Jizz Man was out the back at that very moment, sliding the key into the ignition, revving the engine, adjusting his seatbelt, readying himself for takeoff. But here at the reception desk – as I clutched the form, panting and spluttering – the lady in front of me placed one finger on the intercom buzzer and, without breaking eye contact with me, said in a gravelly tone: “Better not hit the throttle just yet, Jim…looks like we got a live one here.”
We did all the checks and balances and made sure everything was as it should be, then together we danced and sang and cried for joy. The peasant ladies gave me a rucksack, a donkey and three shiny gold coins and saw me on my way. They assured me that their kin would sing campfire songs of my heroics for generations to come. I was the one; the one that made it to the clinic in time for the Jizz Man.
I never got to see the Jizz Man that day, but part of me kind of prefers it that way. I like the sense of mystery that surrounds him, and it makes me happy knowing that he’s out there, somewhere, transporting our spunk safely from one place to another. “Separating the sorrow and collecting all the cream.”
The Great Sperm Race
About a week or so after these breath-taking events I got a text message from my doctor that read simply “Swimmers are fine. Stay the course”. I’ll not forget those words in a hurry. Swimmers are fine. Stay the course. After that, it was just a matter of waiting. Waiting and fucking.
Sometime around Christmas 2011, my wife emerged from the bathroom holding up what looked like an icy-pole stick, half of which seemed to be blue. My reaction was instant: “Get fucked, there’s no way that’s mine! It’s been months since I ate a Rainbow Paddle Pop on the toilet!” Once she sat me down and explained what the situation was, I was pretty excited. but I still felt as though we needed some sort of certificate from a doctor or something. Isn’t that what they do in the movies? Trusting an icy-pole stick just…didn’t seem right. Especially if it really was from a Rainbow Paddle Pop I’d eaten on the toilet.
So many thoughts were rushing through my head at once. Was I ready for this? Would it be a boy or a girl? And did this mean we’re now the same age as the mum and dad from that Where Did I Come From book? They always seemed so frumpy and old.
Folk talk of high tension during the early days of pregnancies, but my memory of that period was more one of curiosity than nervousness or frustration. How did this happen? Who reached the egg first? Did this mean I’d one day have to spend my winters waking up at 7am on Saturday and hauling my ass out to butt-fuck nowhere to watch a crappy under 9s football match?
One night, by pure chance, I found myself watching a brilliant, and timely, Channel 4 documentary called the Great Sperm Race. It explained conception as I’ve never seen it explained before: as an epic, Tolkien-esque adventure that is at once hilarious, tragic and almost impossible to believe. For example, did you know that Microbiologists using the earliest known microscopes in the 16th century actually believed they could see little people inside the head of the sperms? There’s fer shiz a future Disney movie in that, right? Did you also know that human males are among the worst pro-creators in the animal kingdom? Mind you, ladies, you might have dodged a bullet with that last factoid. Otherwise you’d have to deal with being harangued at nightclubs by sleazy men in Gucci suits with bollocks the size of Swiss Balls. TGSR also contains some of the greatest lines I’ve ever heard outside of a Marx Brothers movie. Lines such as this one: “For many primates, sex is as trivial as saying ‘hello’. It’s like shaking hands, only messier.”
Yet through all these twists and turns and lurking dangers, the moral of TGSR was that, generally speaking, the story of reproduction is as we were always taught; your garden variety survival of the fittest situation.
Or is it?
They say the same about sport, right, that the fittest and the healthiest always wins? But it doesn’t always work out that way. And by all accounts pregnancy is no different. I mean, you can’t tell me that you haven’t looked at some of the more duller night club bouncers, footballers or Kardashians you’ve chanced across and quietly whispered to yourself “Jesus. So someone actually outwitted a quarter of a billion sperm to become you?”
So in that time I was waiting to see which one of my legions of seeds would manage to wiggle its little way into existence I found myself quietly hoping that there would not be some kind of monumental fuckup that leads to some lame-wad of a sperm limping its way to the egg while the alphas all come across nasty accidents one by one. No, I hoped that the Ralph Wiggum sperms would be reduced to mere spectators as some square-jawed he-sperm with sunglasses and a toothpick in his mouth cut a mighty swathe through the lot of them; sending them hurtling like skittles as he powered towards the light. So soaring would the confidence of this specimen be, I imagined, that he would even swim backstroke through the home straight, as a final ‘fuck-you’ to all the window licking, cud chewing simpletons he’s left splashing about in his wake.
A sperm did make it through in the end and that sperm, as luck would have it, would go on to become the tiny little toothless, grinning being we now call Sonny. And I’d be lying if I told you there weren’t times – usually when he’s licking my shoulder, punching himself in the face, or repeatedly smashing his head the side of his cot and then laughing about it – that I really do wonder whether the we did indeed get the alpha sperm. But on the whole I reckon we got pretty lucky…. So far, anyway.