“Get your sperm here! Get your sperm here!”
Ralph used to say it once and let it rest, but market analytics bawled him out. “Forty-three percent better sales,” they said. “Put your heart in it,” they said. Ralph has a big mustache. Hasn’t had time to wash it in a while, so it looks like a squid’s eating his face. He’s proud of it anyway.
“Get your sperm here!” Fuck it, he thinks. Motherfuckers can hear the fucking music. Indeed. Another gimmick from analytics, loud shit no one else in their right (or wrong) mind would play, like an ice-cream truck. He used to like it, kind of. It was bearable. Now he hears it in his nightmares. Hard life, being a jizz hawker. But he sure as shit wouldn’t go back to medical insurance, not in this climate, no sir.
“Get your sperm here!” He waves a brown bag. Thick plastic. Label claims “100% Recycled, Ethically Sourced, Compassionate Capital Certified.” He doubts it. Heard some garish rumors. Something something makes Rana Plaza look like Disneyland something something. Through an actual grapevine, so he won’t swear by it.
“Get your sperm here!” One thing he knows, only poor folks’ sperm is marketable. The poorer the better. Labels on the bags brag, “Duration on EBT: 6 Years.” Another: “Lifelong Janitor.” Rich folks all tried CRISPr before they figured out how to work the oven, got their shit burnt. Top dogs claim it’s a one-generation crisis, but now there’s this big new business, well, Ralph has his doubts.