Sperm Funny Quotes

America used to live by the motto "Father Knows Best." Now we're lucky if "Father Knows He Has Children." We've become a nation of sperm donors and baby daddies.

I swore I'd never become some lord's brainless arm ornament and political host, but I've become far worse. I'm a glorified housekeeper and sperm donor. -from the journal of Payton Marcus Townsend.

It is still cheating, even if nobody comes.

Greg turned around, shooting laser beams though the most disappointing sperm he’d ever unleashed.

I don’t want to freeze my eggs. I don’t want to visit a sperm bank. I don’t want to be a single parent, if I have any choice in the matter. I want a nuclear family. I want to put down roots, to let my seeds germinate, to watch them bloom and flourish. Not one day, if and when I ever fall in love again, but now. While I still have my youth, damn it.

You deserve good sperm. You’ve waited a long time.

I made plans for 8:00. When my girlfriend told me she was late, I told her, “That’s funny, because my sperm was absent.

New Rule: Americans must realize what makes NFL football so great: socialism. That's right, the NFL takes money from the rich teams and gives it to the poorer one...just like President Obama wants to do with his secret army of ACORN volunteers. Green Bay, Wisconsin, has a population of one hundred thousand. Yet this sleepy little town on the banks of the Fuck-if-I-know River has just as much of a chance of making it to the Super Bowl as the New York Jets--who next year need to just shut the hell up and play. Now, me personally, I haven't watched a Super Bowl since 2004, when Janet Jackson's nipple popped out during halftime. and that split-second glimpse of an unrestrained black titty burned by eyes and offended me as a Christian. But I get it--who doesn't love the spectacle of juiced-up millionaires giving one another brain damage on a giant flatscreen TV with a picture so real it feels like Ben Roethlisberger is in your living room, grabbing your sister? It's no surprise that some one hundred million Americans will watch the Super Bowl--that's forty million more than go to church on Christmas--suck on that, Jesus! It's also eighty-five million more than watched the last game of the World Series, and in that is an economic lesson for America. Because football is built on an economic model of fairness and opportunity, and baseball is built on a model where the rich almost always win and the poor usually have no chance. The World Series is like The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills. You have to be a rich bitch just to play. The Super Bowl is like Tila Tequila. Anyone can get in. Or to put it another way, football is more like the Democratic philosophy. Democrats don't want to eliminate capitalism or competition, but they'd like it if some kids didn't have to go to a crummy school in a rotten neighborhood while others get to go to a great school and their dad gets them into Harvard. Because when that happens, "achieving the American dream" is easy for some and just a fantasy for others. That's why the NFL literally shares the wealth--TV is their biggest source of revenue, and they put all of it in a big commie pot and split it thirty-two ways. Because they don't want anyone to fall too far behind. That's why the team that wins the Super Bowl picks last in the next draft. Or what the Republicans would call "punishing success." Baseball, on the other hand, is exactly like the Republicans, and I don't just mean it's incredibly boring. I mean their economic theory is every man for himself. The small-market Pittsburgh Steelers go to the Super Bowl more than anybody--but the Pittsburgh Pirates? Levi Johnston has sperm that will not grow and live long enough to see the Pirates in a World Series. Their payroll is $40 million; the Yankees' is $206 million. The Pirates have about as much chance as getting in the playoffs as a poor black teenager from Newark has of becoming the CEO of Halliburton. So you kind of have to laugh--the same angry white males who hate Obama because he's "redistributing wealth" just love football, a sport that succeeds economically because it does just that. To them, the NFL is as American as hot dogs, Chevrolet, apple pie, and a second, giant helping of apple pie.

Adonis is now treating her like a Princess. I think he might even propose marriage, since his wife has just divorced him!" Phyllis explained, & added conversationally,"Do you know why his wife divorced Adonis? For "impotence"! Or what they prefer to call "incompatibility"! Adonis had been giving all his sperm to Vicky at the massage parlour, & had nothing left for his wife. Whenever he had some, he would look for Vicky- so his wife found him incompatible! Don`t you find it funny? He! He! He!" she laughed.[MMT]

Do you consider yourself athletic? How would you rate yourself, say, as a swimmer? Average, below average, maybe a little above average? So-so? Terrible? Well, I’ve got news for you: whether you know it or not, you are a world-class super-Olympic gold medal swimmer. I’m not kidding. You know how I know that? Because I took anatomy, physiology, bacteriology, and chemistry in college, as part of my science minor. And here’s what I learned: we all start out the same way, as tiny sperm cells. In order for you to be born, assuming your daddy had an average sperm count, you had to have out-swum some 200,000 other sperm. And it was uphill all the way. Now, I do not know what motivated you, but that little tail was wiggling like mad, and you were screaming, “Out of my way! Out of my way! I want to teach school! I want to dance! I want to be in real estate! I want to be a journalist!” or whatever it was you were screaming at the top of your little sperm voice.

The key point is that these patterns, while mostly stable, are not permanent: certain environmental experiences can add or subtract methyls and acetyls, changing those patterns. In effect this etches a memory of what the organism was doing or experiencing into its cells—a crucial first step for any Lamarck-like inheritance. Unfortunately, bad experiences can be etched into cells as easily as good experiences. Intense emotional pain can sometimes flood the mammal brain with neurochemicals that tack methyl groups where they shouldn’t be. Mice that are (however contradictory this sounds) bullied by other mice when they’re pups often have these funny methyl patterns in their brains. As do baby mice (both foster and biological) raised by neglectful mothers, mothers who refuse to lick and cuddle and nurse. These neglected mice fall apart in stressful situations as adults, and their meltdowns can’t be the result of poor genes, since biological and foster children end up equally histrionic. Instead the aberrant methyl patterns were imprinted early on, and as neurons kept dividing and the brain kept growing, these patterns perpetuated themselves. The events of September 11, 2001, might have scarred the brains of unborn humans in similar ways. Some pregnant women in Manhattan developed post-traumatic stress disorder, which can epigenetically activate and deactivate at least a dozen genes, including brain genes. These women, especially the ones affected during the third trimester, ended up having children who felt more anxiety and acute distress than other children when confronted with strange stimuli. Notice that these DNA changes aren’t genetic, because the A-C-G-T string remains the same throughout. But epigenetic changes are de facto mutations; genes might as well not function. And just like mutations, epigenetic changes live on in cells and their descendants. Indeed, each of us accumulates more and more unique epigenetic changes as we age. This explains why the personalities and even physiognomies of identical twins, despite identical DNA, grow more distinct each year. It also means that that detective-story trope of one twin committing a murder and both getting away with it—because DNA tests can’t tell them apart—might not hold up forever. Their epigenomes could condemn them. Of course, all this evidence proves only that body cells can record environmental cues and pass them on to other body cells, a limited form of inheritance. Normally when sperm and egg unite, embryos erase this epigenetic information—allowing you to become you, unencumbered by what your parents did. But other evidence suggests that some epigenetic changes, through mistakes or subterfuge, sometimes get smuggled along to new generations of pups, cubs, chicks, or children—close enough to bona fide Lamarckism to make Cuvier and Darwin grind their molars.

I must have blacked out from the pain

Being a laborer with one hand is about as useful as being a sperm donor with one nut.

parents thinking?

So…” I pressed, rolling up on an elbow so I could look down at him. “Is it an undead thing? Like, you can’t father children because your sperm isn’t viable?” One eyelid peeled open, revealing a sliver of blue. “I’m a vampire,” he deadpanned. “Don’t you read books? I can’t come inside unless I’m invited.

Just think if your reading this now, remember that you're the sperm that won.

Mum was a shoeaholic, and Dad was an alcoholic. He said it was cheaper.

Dad’s family, being committed Catholics, were expecting Mum to say something so profound that even the Pope would have sat up and listened. Instead, she grabbed the microphone and said without any hesitation, ‘I want to become Catholic so when I die, I can be buried with the rest of the family in the Catholic section of the cemetery. Thank you.

By the time Father Rufus was finished with her, she looked like a crying clown.

It immediately became clear to me that ‘modern’ to Sister Stephen meant any time after the Middle Ages and that she obviously didn’t own a radio or television.

We always wondered if the fish saw our huge faces against the glass and thought we were sea monsters.

I thought Sandy and I had a lot in common when it came to neglect. We just smiled and put up with all the crap. We couldn’t run away, for we had nowhere to go, and neither of us had any idea whether the grass was greener on the other side. Better the devil you know. We both soldiered on.

Almost every Catholic boy had a go at being an altar boy at some point during their life sentence at school. Some boys were really committed to it and did it for years. I gave it a go when I was around nine years old, mainly because I liked the idea of dressing up in something unusual and performing in front of an audience.

They say the odds of us being conceived come out to one in four hundred trillion; the fact that we’re alive, healthy and able to work from nine to five is literally a miracle. I once heard a Buddhist metaphor that described the amazing probability of this ‘miracle’: Imagine a lifebuoy thrown into an ocean, and a single turtle living somewhere in all the oceans, swimming around underwater. The chances of my being conceived were the same as the odds of Mr Turtle sticking his head out of the water straight into the middle of that life donut – or the same as the chances of my dad having an orgasm sober.

If you’re really thirsty for serious coffee culture and football, it takes nine hours to Melbourne and thirteen to Sydney. If you drive to my hometown from Sydney, you’ll find stretches of road that are so long and straight you could place a brick on the accelerator and take a twenty-minute nap without veering off the road or missing anything in the dry, lifeless landscape of red sand, with its scattered blue saltbush and thirsty mulga and Mallee trees as far as the eye can see. The only thing that might wake you from your snooze would be hitting a red kangaroo. After happily hopping across the land with no particular plan in mind, startled kangaroos usually stop and stand frozen in the middle of the road, curious about the strange machine rocketing towards them. What a way to go. Here’s a tip: attach a ‘roo bar’ – not a place where kangaroos will dance for money, but a very solid metal grill – to the front of your car; that way, the impact

longing to suck that bottle of warm, delicious milk. I hadn’t been weaned off it for very long. I couldn’t resist. I pulled the bottle gently out of my brother’s mouth and hands, popped it hastily into my own mouth, lay back on the sofa and enjoyed the trickle of something warm down my throat - something I still enjoy today. Warm milk is heaven for a toddler, a pleasure beyond measure. That was until my younger brother’s legs began shaking, his fists clenched and his breath started puffing away. This was not a good sign. I turned my head to look at him, the bottle still locked in my mouth, when all of a sudden his face turned red and distorted, like he was about to poop. Instead, he let out a high-pitched scream that didn’t quite shatter the front window – though it must have come close – but shattered my eardrums and froze my whole body. Unfortunately for me, it also ignited my mum and dad, who both dropped whatever they had been doing in the kitchen and came running immediately into the living room. ‘What the hell is going on?’ shouted Dad. ‘Brett’s taken Trevor’s bottle,’ shrieked Mum as she ripped it out of my mouth – with my only tooth still stuck in the teat. She shoved it straight back into my brother’s mouth to disable the alarm. ‘He needs a bloody good hiding.’ ‘Little bastard. Get up and come here now!’ bellowed Dad. He yanked me off the sofa and held me dangling in the air by one arm as if he were holding up the biggest fish he ever caught, but with much less pride. My world was spinning and so was I as Dad whacked my petite bottom. I must have blacked out from the pain as I don’t remember anything after that. What I do remember, however, is resenting my little brother for making me lose both my tooth and my taste for dairy products. I also learnt one of life’s important lessons: be very careful what you put in your mouth.

on 20 April – funnily enough, the same day as Hitler’s birthday – they pulled me out of my mother’s vagina with forceps because she couldn’t be bothered to push, cut the only authentic connection I ever had to her, and slapped my ass until I screamed. They wrapped me up in a cheap tea towel and whisked me away to the baby room so my drunk father could try to wave at me. And just in case that wasn’t enough trauma, the next morning the very same doctor placed himself between my legs and removed my foreskin. Ouch! Why were they clamping my penis and hacking into it with a blade? Apparently this was just so I could ‘look like Daddy’. The worst thing is, I didn’t get a say in it at all. Mongrels. It wasn’t long before my boozed-up daddy, with the neighbour’s tipsy seventeen-year-old daughter under his arm, was at the hospital, standing beside me and my pretty mother. Despite being drained from giving birth and having her lady bits hanging in tatters beneath her, I have no doubt that Mum looked stunning. She always made a point of wearing lippy. Dad bent over and covered me with his beer breath, declaring, ‘We’re going to call him Bradley.

it takes nine hours to Melbourne and thirteen to Sydney. If you drive to my hometown from Sydney, you’ll find stretches of road that are so long and straight you could place a brick on the accelerator and take a twenty-minute nap without veering off the road or missing anything in the dry, lifeless landscape of red sand, with its scattered blue saltbush and thirsty mulga and Mallee trees as far as the eye can see. The only thing that might wake you from your snooze would be hitting a red kangaroo. After happily hopping across the land with no particular plan in mind, startled kangaroos usually stop and stand frozen in the middle of the road, curious about the strange machine rocketing towards them. What a way to go. Here’s a tip: attach a ‘roo bar’ – not a place where kangaroos will dance for money, but a very solid metal grill – to the front of your car; that way, the impact will do more damage to the kangaroo than it does to your vehicle.

As in most mining towns, the people of Broken Hill were not expecting the minerals to last forever, so they built the dwellings accordingly. As a result, our house required ongoing maintenance. Every day when explosives were fired underground at 7 am and 3 pm to prepare the mines for the next shift, the ground rumbled, the house shook and it became a sport spotting the new bits of damage – mostly chunks of cement falling off the outside walls, which didn’t make the house look very pretty. The blasts were like small earth tremors, so Mum never bought ornaments for the mantelpiece or shelves; they would only end up as jigsaw puzzles on the ground around 7 am or 3 pm.

It was quite common for households in towns like mine to have BB rifles, commonly called slug guns. These were air rifles that shot very tiny soft lead pellets called slugs. They weren’t that lethal unless you shot at very close range, but they could blind you if you got shot in the eye. Most teenagers had them to control pests like rats, or to stun rabbits. However, most kids used them to shoot empty beer cans lined up on the back fence, practising their aim for the day they were old enough to purchase a serious firearm. Fortunately, a law banning guns was introduced in Australia in 1996 after thirty-five innocent people were shot with a semi-automatic weapon in a mass shooting in Tasmania. The crazy shooter must have had a slug gun when he was a teenager. But this was pre-1996. And my brothers, of course, loved shooting. My cousin Billy, who was sixteen years old at the time – twice my age – came to visit one Christmas holiday from Adelaide. He loved coming to the outback and getting feral with the rest of us. He also enjoyed hitting those empty beer cans with the slug gun. Billy wasn’t the best shooter. His hand-eye coordination was poor, and I was always convinced he needed to wear glasses. Most of the slugs he shot either hit the fence or went off into the universe somewhere. The small size of the beer cans frustrated him, so he was on the lookout for a bigger target. Sure enough, my brothers quickly pushed me forward and shouted, ‘Here, shoot Betty!’ Billy laughed, but loved the idea. ‘Brett, stand back a bit and spread your legs. I’ll shoot between them just for fun.’ Basically, he saw me as an easy target, and I wasn’t going to argue with a teenager who had a weapon in his hand. I naively thought it could be a fun game with my siblings and cousin; perhaps we could take turns. So, like a magician’s assistant, I complied and spread my skinny young legs as far apart as an eight-year-old could, fully confident he would hit the dust between them . . . Nope. He didn’t. He shot my leg, and it wasn’t fun. Birds burst out of all the surrounding trees – not from the sound of the gunshot, but from my piercing shriek of pain. While I rolled around on the ground, screaming in agony, clutching my bleeding shin, my brothers were screaming with laughter. I even heard one of them shout, ‘Shoot him while he’s down!’ Who needs enemies when you have that kind of brotherly love? No one rushed to help; they simply moved to the back fence to line up the cans for another round. I crawled inside the house with blood dripping down my leg, seeking Mum, the nurse, to patch me up. To this day, I have a scar on my leg as a souvenir from that incident . . . and I still think Billy needed glasses. I also still get very anxious when anyone asks me to spread my legs.

Getting a nickname is a very common thing in Australia, and when your friends honour you with one, you don’t have a choice; you have to accept it. I knew a guy at school who was super thin, so he scored the nickname ‘Skin’, for ‘skinny’. My mother’s name is Shirley, but Dad only called her ‘Girl’ and hardly ever said her real name. Either it was because she always looked so young and pretty, or he was playing it safe to avoid slipping up and calling her by a different woman’s name when he was drunk.