Yes indeedy, circle of girls surrounding my desk, it appears that you have all outscored me on our Math 1B midterm. Some of you are laughing about your too-high score with (also-female) friends, while others of you have modestly glanced at your score before you put the paper in your Hello Kitty festooned feminine pink/purple backpack. I’ll bet you’d find it hilarious that you got a 96 whereas I got a 69. Ha ha ha. I can laugh about this, because your math-superiority means nothing to me. You see, I can impregnate all of you.
Do you know how much sperm I have within my angry red testicles? Billions. Billions of sperm. And all I need is one of them, carefully aimed, to knock you up like Hugh Grant’s wife in Nine Months. Let me put that in perspective: if all my sperm were lined end to end, they’d circle the moon several times before flying back into your uterus on Earth. To give my sperm names, I’d have to go through tens of thousands of baby books. Maybe even more books than that, because my sperm are strong, mighty sperm and can’t be given foofy-poofy names like ‘Timmy’ and ‘Mikey.’ No, my sperm will be named ‘Adrian’ and ‘Hercules,’ or possibly ‘Apollo.’
What, you say your eggs are safely contained behind several layers of clothing and crossed legs? It matters not; my sperm need no easy flight via penis. Bam, bam, bam, I have impregnated three of you, just by ordering my sperm to go forth and do my bidding. They have access to teleportation. They have magical powers. They can ride the mystical winds past any layers of panties. That girl behind me, who got the 93? Already my sperm has equipped itself and has transported itself to just behind her cervic. Entering the cervix is like winning chess games against three year olds for my sperm.
On the pill? I laugh. My sperm are not the weak, stupid sperm you see running into each other on health class videos. They have thick, powerful tails and an unerring sense of direction. It is but child’s play to travel down the fallopian tube and forcibly drag an egg kicking and screaming into the uterus. Menstruating? No more; my sperm need that rich uterine lining. They have the technology. They can put it back. I shall keep your now-clean tampon as a war trophy.
And don’t think your X chromosome will get equal say in the formation of my child. My sperm have no need of your weak genetic alleles. I laugh at your alleles; they are like half or one quarter of my alleles. My sperm shall allow our child to have your black hair, and also perhaps your eyes. But kiss your genetic predisposition towards math skills goodbye; I destroy it, just to spite you.
My child already grows, foregoing the zygote stage entirely. If he wanted to, he could burst from your stomach like the creature in Alien. But my child is benevolent, and will allow you to carry him to term. He shall be born in three months! Be prepared! Praise my Sperm!
