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In This Issue

• What To Do With Books
• Craigslist Finds New Ways to Disturb
• Ovary Mining: Profit In Your Pants
• Letters to the Feditors
• Experience? Uh, no
• Sitting On Babies?
• The Internet = Porn. Porn = The Fed. Logically...
• "Which Came First, the Chicken or the Dregs?"
• Hey, Athletes! Need a Team? Call Me Ishmael.
• Hot Sex? Meh. Mock Interviews? Ooo Yeah, Baby.
• Swipe, Suffer, Suffocate
• From The Desk of Lee "El Cuisinart" Bollinger
• Practice Protectionism in the Bedroom
• Living at the Speed of 2.99x10^8 m/s
• Sensitivity Training Averts Termination
• Congrats, You're Fucked
• The Hierarchy of Columbia
• THEY Watch

Mike Bredin

Just think - in some states, this child would be aborted!

I’ve realized I haven’t done everything that I set out to accomplish when I was but a wee freshman. I never let anyone snort cocaine off of my silky smooth breasts. I never did study abroad my junior year. I never had that broken condom scare that led me to a serious revelation about my own sexuality. Most importantly, I never did get around to polishing my resume, having multiple satisfying internships in my future field, or doing anything that would secure me lucrative employment at the end of this year.

    What to do? Surely I had to be at least minimally employable. Suddenly, I realized that I was sitting on a goldmine. That is, a goldmine that was slowly being depleted 1/500,000th at a time, as monthly it oozed from my ovaries, into my fallopian tubes, until finally exiting vaginally. Apparently, as I read in various fliers on campus and in newspaper ads, barren couples were willing to pay hundreds of dollars for some of my juicy and numerous eggs. The lowest price I saw was $1,000 and it only went up from there. Of course, with my math smarts, (i.e. taking Groups and Symmetry—twice!) I realized I could turn that one grand into hundreds and millions more via investment. Investment, or as they describe it at a liberal arts college, the black art in which it is forbidden to major, works in strange and unusual ways. By throwing my one grand into a bank account at the right lunar eclipse and paying careful attention to esoteric things like “interest” and “principles,” I would probably end up with “profit” in the end.

    There were, however, several hurdles to my money-making scheme. Reading the first few ads, I realized that prospective parents wanted more in a donor than just her eggs.  They wanted crazy and unreasonable things that might be difficult for me to provide.

    1. That their egg donor be a non-smoker.  That was easy!  Having listened to fascist authorities and DARE programs in my youth, I was set.  But wait, what about my love for sweet, sweet marijuana cigarettes?  That one was much harder. But, I reasoned, all of the cigarette smokers I knew were edgy and tense all the time, while the ganja smokers tended to be happy and laid-back. A marijuana egg-baby, I told myself, who lies placidly in its crib staring up at the ceiling with dilated pupils without crying is probably just what a rich, 45 year old, white couple wants.

    2. That egg donors be Ivy League educated.  That one was slightly harder. Barnard counted, right? And after all, even if it didn’t, I was still part of the Seven Sisters, and people would certainly take that seriously, right? No.  The ambiguous “Columbia University” it was, I decided as I filled out my application.

    3. That egg donors be between 5’5 and 5’8.  That was nothing a pair of six inch heels couldn’t fix.

    4. That egg donors be Caucasian, preferably blonde. I couldn’t believe it. What parents seriously wanted long legged, Nordic goddesses, when they could have a short, dark dwarf to provide them with eggs?

    But this was going to work, I knew it. After all, my uterus was practically paved in gold. There were probably even more financially attractive uses for it out there, like renting it out for a few months at a time.  No, not to more rich WASP types, but to German scientists in desperate need of wombs, wombs to incubate with their attempts to splice bulldogs together with macaw parrots, and chupacabras with capybaras. Because, after all, I was sure they’d pay in cash and take far less than 9 months out of my busy year.

    And what about those urban legends? You know, women who carry dead babies stuffed with drugs onto airplanes to smuggle into Los Estados Unidos?  I was sure I’d be great at delivering stillborn babies for this purpose, or, as I would call them in the industry, “stills.”

    My plan was ideal. I’d combine the best of both worlds—the sexist, outdated one, and the progressive, feminazi one—by popping things out of my uterus, and being a successful businesswoman. Yes, it was perfect.

    Until I realized just how the egg donation process would take place. Using an ultrasound that would get inserted vaginally, a surgeon would use a needle through the vagina to suck out all of my wayward little eggs. An ultrasound? Would that be like having dolphins singing into my cooch? And needles sounded scary and unfriendly. As I thought long and hard about it, I realized that egg donation wasn’t the way for me. Until using my uterus to make big bucks became painless and easy, it was back to either relying on an MRS degree or selling my kidney on eBay to turn a profit to feed my addiction to Pokemon playing cards and phone sex.