Shooting the Moon?

By Sigge S. Amdal © 2004

I have reasons to believe that the sperm that eventually impregnated my mother and caused me upon the world, the little pre-me, did not win "the competition" by regular means.

It’s not that I don’t swim fast. In fact I’m an excellent swimmer! And I run fast if I have to. I have sharpened reflexes. Why doubt my physical ability then? It’s just that I know myself too well, and why should pre-me be any different?

Prior to discharge pre-me had probably arranged quite a party, inviting all friends, friends’ friends etc., keeping busy not getting drunk. I’m sure you can all agree that it’s a plausible theory. When waiting to be plunged out into the unknown, the judgement day of sperm, one would be easily talked into having a great party.

"Who knows what’ll happen when we get out there?" pre-me would ask. No one knew, so why don’t we get drunk?

That’s what happened, and they partied like it was 1983... Which it was.

Boom!

Party over, most people invited still drunk and indifferent towards the task at hand, left at least a good ten percent swimming at each other and having a laugh down by the greater, vestibular glands while the sensible and sober sperm started swimming. Pre-me among them, with a small head start.

Halfway towards the egg, not leading the race but not far from it, pre-me would collect his strengths and engage in small talk while swimming. Pre-me would strain to look concerned, asking for directions, which would weed out those who actually bore these doubts.

"Are you sure it’s not that way?" or "It’s so dark in here, but I’m positive that we missed a crossroad further down."

At counter-questions pre-me would shrug - try picturing that! - looking rather confused, saying: "I don’t know. I’m just following the guy in front of me."

As you can imagine, this strategy would put off those finding themselves smarter than the rest, taking completely wrong turns into the maze that is the female sex organ. Some of them would never be found again.

As you know there is a lot of sperm ejaculated which isn’t alive. Not to worry, there are billions upon billions of living sperm, but still there are those dead. Inevitably there would be dead swimmers pushed in front of the front-swimmers, slowly moving backwards in the desperate queue, as people pushed them away. Pre-me, having anticipated this, naturally took advantage of the situation, trying to make people sympathize or develop great fears of our chaotic situation.

"Hey! We need a stretcher for this one, He’s badly wounded!" or "People are dying like flies in the front! Save yourselves!"

Surely this would reduce the number of on-goers.

Now, then, with only a small twenty-five percent left for the final rounds, pre-me would put all his money on one horse: Himself. Having carefully dismissed the ignorant brutes physically stronger than him, whose endurance alone would have made the race a far shot, he depended now on his last physical resorts, swimming against those stubborn ones who hadn’t fallen for his tricks. Luckily, they proved to be exhausted from the ordeal, leaving pre-me as the grand winner, claiming the egg.

Which is why I’m here. Survival of the fittest? Pre-me never saw them again.

Sigge S. Amdal is a word wanker from Oslo, Norway.