Conditional discharge, a sticky deposit
It’s such a genius idea, it’s a wonder that nobody has thought of it sooner. In this age of celebrity, what could be more appropriate than ladies forking out fifteen thousand pounds to impregnate themselves with the sperm of a famous man.
Yes, it’s FameDaddy, and it’s not a hoax because it has been reviewed by national newspapers (but there again, so was the invasion of Iraq).
The concept is as simple as it is unworkable. Successful men will give up their time and bodily fluids to contribute to a sperm bank. Strangely perverse women will then spend large amounts of money for the frozen sperm. Result: Profit. And children.
“Ex” because any current footballer is far too busy lying on the ground pretending to be hurt, or lying on top of the wife of another footballer and wasting all that wonderful celebrity sperm.
Another choice is a Formula 1 driver:
You can imagine the conversation when a representative from Fame Daddy calls Jenson Button:
Good morning Jenson. I know you do a lot of good work for charity, so I thought you would interested in giving some of yourself in a good cause.
What part of myself?
Your sperm, your cum, your jizz, your love juice, your man milk, your..
OK, I got it. What are you on about?
We want you to donate your sperm so that some lucky ladies can pay fifteen thousand pounds to have little Jensons.
And what do I get?
Nothing; except maybe a knock on the door in eighteen years time, which you answer to find a spotty-faced youth who looks surprisingly like you and who says “hello Daddy, give me some cash”.
Is that all?
No. First you will have to come and be interviewed and be subjected to a battery of tests which include the provision of samples of sperm, blood, bone marrow and brain tissue; all mixed together in a big jar. Haha; just joking. Oh, and then you will need a complete physical.
Is that all?
No. Tell me, what do you normally do on Tuesdays?
Well, Jessica and I lounge by the pool, then it is drinks overlooking the harbour in Monaco, a candlelit dinner at one of the best restaurants in town and then back to my place where Jessica slips on some lingerie, I slip on a Barry Manilow album; and then we make sweet love.
Sounds average. Have I got an alternative for you. Rather than wasting your baby gravy in, on and around young Jessica; you jump on an EasyJet flight to the UK and make your way by bus to our rather faded premises (we reimburse reasonable transport costs). We will place you in a poorly lit room with a magazine containing suspiciously crispy pages, featuring Photoshopped photos of a haggard slut from Barnsley called Debbie with unlikely breasts and crooked teeth. Suitably enthused, you will exude your love honey into a small container. Cup of tea and biscuits afterwards. How’s that for a value proposition?
Jenson? Hello, Jenson?
I worked my way through, choosing the most obnoxious traits and rather expected the resulting father to be David Cameron. Instead it was someone I had never heard of:
Still, the quiz never lies and if I were a lady I would be sticking some of Craig’s baby batter where the sun doesn’t shine, as soon as my cheque cleared.
Of course I am only sneering because I have not yet been invited to donate. You would have thought that “Slightly faded finance director” would be high on their list of required celebrities; although I would require that their “twice a week” donation schedule be modified to “twice a month, and only if I am in a perky mood, which doesn’t happen very often, just ask she who must be obeyed.”
I checked with acquaintances and Spacefruit confirmed that he was already a donor. At least that is what he told his girlfriend when she came home to find him being serviced by a couple of charming young ladies because “I am so well-endowed, I cannot handle the act of giving on my own”. Nik said he was still waiting the call, but they were “welcome to come and scrape some off my monitor.” Nice.
Instead of all this celebrity nonsense, Fame Daddy should just take a plastic bucket down to beach road and accept donations from the varied selection of sub-humanity that hangs around there. Mix it all up, stick it in the freezer and put a label on the outside saying “Formula 1 driver”. Anyone foolish enough to hand over fifteen thousand pounds will then get exactly the offspring they deserve.
Update: The Fame Daddy website is, perhaps thankfully for civilisation, a hoax. Still, I enjoyed writing about it and it means they won’t sue me.
Comments are closed.