Wyldcard Jokester CP Enforcer's blog: "The Wyld Life..."

As far as any type of religion goes...well, I guess people will believe what they WANT to believe, and create their own personal reality based on those beliefs, and adhere to it. Hell, because our country adheres to a concept of freedom of religion, I could walk around worshipping a grilled cheese sandwich if I believed in it hard enough. Does that seem crazy? Sure, to most people...but maybe not to the person who HAS that belief. Does that make it a religion? Most people would say no, but who knows? It sure wouldn't be the norm, but maybe somewhere out there, there are a bunch of people standing around a big skillet somewhere watching cheese melt and praying away. Are they right? Is their faith valid? *shrugs* All depends on your point of view, I guess. Just don't try to convince me that I'll find nirvana if the bread is toasted just right... *chuckles* I'm tired, babbling, and getting a bit silly here, so I guess I'll just try to simplfy what I'm trying to say.

Point One: You have the right to believe whatever the hell you want.

Point Two: Others have the right to disagree. Hell, they even have the right to think you are out of your fucking mind.

Point Three: I want a grilled cheese sandwich.

 

~Wyld

Ok, I've mentioned this story in lounge before, but figured it'd be funny as hell to mention in my Blog too, beings anyone I've ever told this story to had laughed their ass off...it deals with my experience going to a sperm bank.

First, however, let me give you a little background as to how I ended up going there. It's been almost a year since I got laid off from my job, and a few weeks after it happened, my wife and I were scrambling around, trying to figure out how we were going to pay our bills. At the time, I was already donating plasma (yes, I was already whoring out one bodily fluid for cash...why not another? :p ), and apparently, my brother-in-law had mentioned to my wife something about a sperm bank in the city where I lived...an anonymous sperm donor program where if you got in, you'd go in and continually donate for 9 months regularly, could donate twice a week, and get $40 to $55 each donation.

Figuring it out in her head that this would be about $320 to $440 a month, it piqued my wife's interest. When my wife mentioned it to me, wanting me to go check it out, I was resistant. I pictured a bunch of guys all sitting around waiting in a waiting room, awaiting their turn to go whack off in a cup, which turned me off on the idea...but she was working all the time, and at the time was also helping a friend run paper routes to earn extra cash as well, while I was at home with the kids, and I felt like i needed to do more to help our financial situation, so I reluctantly agreed to call, and set up an appointment.

So, I go there, feeling very self-conscious when I first walk through the doors. They have me take a seat, in a small private room, to fill out all my various info...it is totally different than I expected...I don't see any of the other donors. After filling everything out, I am told I have to donate twice for free for "testing purposes" before I would be considered for the program. I am then handed a cup, and told to go into a little room. In this room, I kind of stand there for a moment, feeling very out of place. There is a comfortable chair, facing a TV, and next to it are some kind of paper sheet, which I assume are to be set on the chair to avoid "drippage". In a cabinet are a bunch of porn magazines. Opting for the TV option, I turn it on, and there is a porn movie playing, of course.

Now, my daring reader, I'm not sure exactly how into porn you are, but I will say, going by MY experience, sperm banks have DAMN good porn...which is actually a good thing because, due to not being able to use lubricant, for fear of contaminating the sample, ya kinda have to dry-stroke yourself off. So, I pull down the pants, whip it out, and proceed to have sexual relations with a plastic cup while watching some damn good porn. It takes me awhile to finish, but I finally do.

Now, comes the most awkward part...the turn-in. The lady behind the counter when I came in was old enough to have at least been my mother, if not my grandmother, so I was not looking forward to this. As I was walking out, obsessing about handing some strange lady a cup of my man-juice, I had a weird, very random thought pop into my head that actually made me start laughing aloud as I walked up to the desk, and the lady behind the counter gave me a look that led me to believe she probably thought I was crazy or high. This random thought I had was, "Here ya go...freshly squeezed...I made it myself.." :p

Anyway, she gave me a sharpie marker to write my last name and the exact time my sample was taken, and set up a time for my second free donation later that week. So, I'm leaving...I walk out into the parking lot, feeling very self-conscious again, as if every passerby in their cars, or walking on the street knew exactly what I'd been doing, beings I just walked out of the place. See, the sperm bank is located down in the college district right near all the student housing. I kept thinking on my way to the car that some frat boy was going to see me, stick his head out his window, point at me, and yell at the top of his lungs, "HEY, JACKER!" and start laughing, but that never happened. Thinking about it later, I figured probably alot of those guys go to the place too...after all, college kids need SOME way to get beer money. :p

Anyhow, the process is repeated a few days later, and a couple days after that, I receive a phone call. The lady on the phone informed me I would NOT be accepted into the donor program, because apparently, my swimmers did not survive the deep freeze. (Spermcicle, anyone? :p ) She then informs me that I can try again in one year's time, if i want. This made me wonder...why would they think the result would change over the year? It's not like I can put my spermies on an extreme work out regimen to get them more buff, and I'm not gonna ice my balls for a year to try to acclimate em to the cold. :p You'd figure even after a year, the result would probably be the same.

Anyhow, six months pass, and I get a little card in the mail. It is a reminder note, letting me know that in April, I can return to try again. I laugh, because at the bottom of this card, in script, were the words, "We Miss You!" Wow, I guess those two times i went and whacked off in a cup for them, caused them to develop some sort of emotional attachment, eh? Hell, if i wanted that, I coulda just become a paid gigalo, and screwed some lady til she got knocked up (If there was a market for overweight, unemployed graphic artists, that is...). *laughs*

So, anyway, next month will be a year since I visited the sperm bank, and I guess I'll have to decide if I want to try again, beings we are still in somewhat dire financial straits yet. Aside from the whole money thing, I've been weighing the pros and cons.

Cons: having to use gas to drive all the way down there twice, feeling embarrassed and self conscious, just to hand over a cup of semen to a lady who will more than likely tell me my "stuff isn't up to snuff".

Pros: They really DO have damn good porn there...

Hmmm...tough decision. :p

*grins*

 

~Wyld

...and the Devil is a Hawaiian shirt. Or maybe a tube top. Or perhaps spandex... *chuckles* Well...if God IS a sock, I guess that would explain why my prayers to hit the lottery were never answered. I was praying to the wrong place. So, if God is a sock, would that make your sock drawer a holy place? A church per se? Because if that is the case, I'd like to start church services...and the donation box is right as you walk in. Maybe I could become the first Sock televangelist, and broadcast live from my sock drawer. Call 1-800-GOD-SOCK, and send in those donations, Folks...and I'll heal all your ills in the name of Hanes knee-highs! Hmmm...and that brings up another question...there are MANY socks in the sock drawer. Obviously, the others MUST be FALSE socks...Which one is God? Is he in MY sock drawer, or in someone else's? Or perhaps God is the missing sock you always end up having with after you go to the laundromat? (Nahhh...can't be. The missing socks in the laundry aren't really lost. They've been redeemed and called home. :p) Hmmm...alot of parallelisms of comparing the sock drawer to the viewpoints of how religion is looked at...!

*chortles*

 

~Wyld

Bill is a nice guy who has a great job, a nice house, and is generally a happy guy. Everything is going along fine, until one day as he gets out of bed, he hears a voice in his head… “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” He kind of shakes his head and ignores this voice, finishes getting ready, and heads for work. The next morning at the exact same time, he hears the voice again… “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” He again shrugs it off and ignores it, and heads for work. This continues every day that week, over and over. “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” The next week, this voice comes every hour… “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” He’s getting a bit worried and beginning to doubt his sanity, but continues to ignore it. The week after that, the voice comes every minute. “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” “Quit your job. Sell your House. Go to Las Vegas.” Finally, he can’t stand it anymore. “To hell with it!” he cries, and hoping to stop the voice in his head, he immediately quits his job, and puts his house up for sale, and it is quickly snatched up. Taking all his money, he gets on a plane and heads to Las Vegas. As soon as he gets off the plane, the voice speaks to him again… “Go to Caesar’s Palace.” “Well,” he thinks, “I’m already here…I’ve already followed the voice this far,” and he gets in a cab and heads to Caesar’s Palace. As soon as he enters the casino, the voice speaks again… “Go to the Roulette table.” He shrugs, and heads over to the Roulette table, and as soon as he gets there, the voice says… “Put all your money on Black 17.” Beginning to think that maybe he’s being lead by fate, he puts all his cash on Black 17. Once the bet is placed, the wheel is set in motion, and begins to spin. Spinning… Spinning… Spinning… Spinning… And lands on Red 21 and the voice says, “FUCK!” ~Wyld

I’ve been doing a little reminiscing over the past few days… My earliest childhood memory was my fourth birthday party. That memory is as clear as day to me. I remember all of my family crammed around our kitchen table…my older brother, my four older sisters, my dad, and my mom, who was holding onto my younger sister, and my aunt and uncle who lived right next door to us. I blew out my birthday candles and then had a huge piece of cake and a scoop of ice cream. I remember the presents I received; a Milwaukee Brewers baseball cap, a wiffle ball and bat set, and a plastic Spider-man toy that was attached to a cheap plastic parachute. The last was my favorite. I loved that toy. I spent hours throwing it up into the air and watching it float down…at least until I threw it a bit too high and got caught in a tree and I couldn’t get it back down. There are many moments in my early childhood that stand out in my memory. I remember my dad taking us kids for walks around the block, telling us we should always watch the ground for money, while throwing change in front of us and laughing as we’d rush to pick it up. I remember going next door to my aunt’s house for snacks. She was an amazingly caring lady, who I miss a lot…she died of bone cancer when I was ten. She had no children of her own, and treated us as if we were her kids. She always left her front door unlocked, and if she wasn’t there, we just helped ourselves to anything we wanted to snack on. I distinctly remember many times, walking next door, going into her cupboard and eating a banana or two and just throwing the peels back where I found them. Good thing she liked me. I remember going around the block, pulling a little red wagon full of mason jars, catching caterpillars, grasshoppers, spiders, and any other type of bug that caught my interest. I remember my grandma Rosa, my dad’s mother, who lived with us when I was very little. She was always reading stories to me, awakening my imagination and giving me a great love reading and writing. I remember that for some reason or another, I was deathly afraid of the sight of blood when I was a little kid…it didn’t matter if it was mine or someone else’s. I guess I must have figured that if you were bleeding, you were going to die or something. One time, I was watching TV and my younger sister, who was just learning to walk, came up and started turning the knobs and changed the channel during my favorite show. I got irritated and gave her a shove, and she fell headfirst into our record cabinet, cutting her head open. Given my fear of blood, I panicked and ran off, hiding in a corner, thinking I killed her. My mom took my sister to get her stitches, and my dad spanked me so hard that it hurt to sit down for days. I remember another similar incident when my older sister was going to beat me up…I can’t remember why, but I’m SURE it was undeserved. She chased me, and I ran into my brother’s room. When she came in, I picked up my brother’s belt and told her to stay away or I’d hit her with it. She laughed and came after me, and when I swung the belt, the buckle caught her right on top of the head, splitting it open. Again, I freaked, terrified and screaming at the sight of blood. She didn’t beat me up…but again, my dad dished out a similar punishment. I remember my best friend was a girl named Becky who lived around the corner. Sure, beings as I was a boy, it might have been somewhat out of the ordinary…but she was a tomboy, and most of the time we did stuff I liked, like playing with my wiffle ball and bat, going to the park and spinning on the merry-go-round, swings, and teeter-totter. Those rare occasions she wanted to play with her Barbies, I went along with it because she was my friend, although I INSISTED on being Ken. For some reason, her parents never seemed to like me very much, although I can’t remember why. I remember going to my park with my older sisters, and falling off of the top a slide one time and hitting the blacktop. I didn’t get badly hurt, luckily, but since they were supposed to be keeping an eye on me, and didn’t want to get in trouble for leaving me alone, my sisters bribed me with an ice cream cone so I wouldn’t tell my mom and dad what happened. I remember we had a couple of trees on our property. We had a plum tree that we used to have “plum wars” with, whipping them at each other. We also had some other weird tree that had some sort of weird orange looking berry things on it…we always used to call it the poison berry tree. One day my older sisters and some of the neighbor kids pretended to eat the berries on the poison berry tree and “die”, and then rise and act like zombies to scare me. I was terrified and ran in the house. They thought it was hilarious until they realized I had locked the doors and they couldn’t get back in. I remember my first day of kindergarten, and how some mean girl who was about three years older than me pushed me off the steps of the bus. My face hit the curb and bloodied my lip, and my older sisters proceeded to beat the crap out of her. I remember going to my grandma Jenny’s house one time and falling asleep on the floor. In the middle of the night, I woke up to something snuffling around my face. It was my grandma’s dog…a temperamental poodle she had named “Teddy Bear”. When I jumped in surprise, Teddy Bear bit me in the nose. It must have scared the hell out of my parents to be awoken by their five-year-old shrilly screaming, blood streaming down his face. Ahhh, to be a kid again…

I have come to realize I am a teeny bit of a hypocrite... I remember back in the days before i had kids, i would listen to my sisters telling stories about their kids...stuff like, "Nathan just got on the basketball team," or "Joey just got his drivers licence," and my eyes would glaze over in boredom as one thing would pop into my mind...one urgent and frustrated thought... "DON'T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE OTHER THAN YOUR DAMN KIDS!" Fast forward a few years later...I have three kids of my own, and whenever I talk to anyone, I end up saying stuff like, "Brandon is reading at a 3rd grade level as a first grader" or "Samantha can count to twenty now" and i can see their eyes glazing over in boredom, knowing exactly what thought is going through their minds... "DON'T YOU EVER TALK ABOUT ANYTHING ELSE OTHER THAN YOUR DAMN KIDS!" I've come to realize all parents are like that...their kids take up so much of their thoughts, especially when they are young, that they can't help themselves....they kinda get OCD about it. We love em, we're proud of em, and wanna let everyone know how special we think they are, regardless of whether or not whoever is listening really gives a shit. Funny thing is, I am aware of it, but it doesn't stop me from continuing to talk about em...i must take a sadistic pleasure of boring the living hell out of those i talk to....psychological torture! So, word to the wise, you single folks out there who are sitting through another long, boring "my kids are doing this.." story. Take heart...your time will come and soon you TOO, will be boring the shit outta everyone! ~Wyld

So...I've decided to actually start a Blog, simply because I have a ton of weird, fucked up thoughts pop into my head at any given moment, and I thought it'd make amusing reading. First tho, an introduction... My name is Steve, and I am currently a full-time unemployed slacker, looking for a job, beings my career path as a graphic artist for the past 8 1/2 years kinda took an unexpected hiatus when i was laid off around 11 months ago. Now, I'm a "house-dad"...I cook, I clean, I watch my kids, and I don't leave the house much...pretty much your average, mundane, hum-drum life. I've been married to my wife, Liz, for almost 9 years now, and we've been together for almost 15. I have 3 kids...my son Brandon, who is 6, my daughter Samantha, who's 4, and my son Bryan, who's 3. I love em more than anything, but am still adjusting to being home with em all the time, even after all this time, so at times, they do have a tendency to drive me crazy. *chuckles* We definitely do not like a typical "Ward and June Cleaver" kind of existence around here...not that anyone really does. We have our day to day responsabilities, our stresses, our arguments and fights, and so forth. I don't try to put a pretty face on stuff...I'm a firm believer of keeping things "real", as you will surely see if I decide to post blog entries regularly. I don't believe in pretending to be something I'm not, even as flawed as I am...I'd rather have folks like me "as is". Those of you that actually know me, know that one of my great loves is odd humor and comedy...I love to tell jokes, make people laugh, look at things in weird and unexpected ways, and in general, have a good time doing it. I have a tendency to be a bit of an attention whore while doing it too. *chuckles* I pretty much don't hold anything back...I'll talk about anything and everything about myself, even embarrassing shit...especially if i can get a laugh out of it. I don't believe in the term "too much info"...I've often said, there is no such thing as too much info, just too many folks who are too faint of heart to hear what I have to say. *grins* So, anyway, that's a condensed version of me, pretty much... Later! ~Wyld