Up The Duff

For some people, watching that little blue ink marker that starts as a negative morph into a positive symbol is the very meaning of their existence. And good for them I say; it´s a dirty, nappy filled, expensive and thankless job, but someone´s gotta do it. I´m talking about being up the duff.

Maybe you don´t believe me, but really, for some people, life is just not worth living without the sound of a screaming baby. Or five. These days there´s big bucks involved. You can sell your eggs online. It´s still illegal, but people are all over it, there´s not really any proper policing going on. Especially young women in their early to mid twenties with a few degrees and some kind of pedigree (arian preferably) in the genes. They can rake it in. Up to €12,000 a pop, apparently a 'good breeder' can drop up to 5 eggs at a time...that´s only just over 2 grand per egg and with five in the turkey baster, who knows? One could end up with twins; blond, blue eyed, MBA gened twins. Super!

Whatever, whether you think paying for donors or using the public health system for free (whilst cancer & organ donor seeking patients wait for you to curtail to your egocentric needs) is moral or not is not for me to pass comment or judgement on.

But you can see the appeal of controling the evolutionary process. Imagine how gutting it must be to be a man with two daughters. It must have been disappointing enough to see the first one come out as a girl. But to wait another 9 months before you could touch the mrs again, then another 9 for gestation...nearly two years....and then to end up with another bloody girl. Je-sus. That´s just not cricket.

Or imagine if you were the poor woman who carried three...not 1, not 2, but 3...sons! Fuck. What else would you say? Sure, if you were nice wifey, demure, accommodating...a total doormat basically...you would just smile sweetly at your testerone laden xy cromosone sperm shooting husband and congratulate him that you´re almost half way to your own in-house 7 aside rugby team.

What else could you do? Without looking like a poor sport that is. Sweet FA really. The only possible solution could be to go the Samoan fafafine route. That is, to make the youngest one a girl. Dress him like a girl from infancy, treat him like a girl, basically, turn your boy into a girl of sorts.

This isn´t a concept that works for the men who end up with a tribe of daughters, it only works for the mothers with sons. And rightly so. You would expect something after all that pain and pushing. A daugther at least. Three sons? Plus a husband (or an ongoing string of unsuitable suitors)? All that testosterone? No, no. Really, I mean no. That´s just plain unreasonable by anybody´s standards.

Anyway, my point is, if you´re up the duff thanks to mother nature and if that´s what you want, then good for you. If you´re chucking loads of money towards forcing nature to do freaky shit, then screw you, your doctors and your selfish ego for fucking with evolution.

www.youtube.com/watch?v=9TaX9rQr8Fc
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