By Olive Rosehips
(In response to “Mothers and Fathers”)
I’m not here to talk about Michael Phelps, polliwogs or the breast stroke…well, maybe the breast stroke – I’ll let you make that call. “Swimmers” is my while-in-polite-company terminology for “sperm”. If you don’t mind I will continue to call them swimmers here because we all know they do there best work when wet. Once you get them going, these swimmers are impressive: imagine them like horses – their tails like manes waving behind them, propelling them forward in the race to beat the others. It’s a stampede, as they all head for that egg cell finish line, positioning themselves ahead of one another at incredible speeds with focused determination. I picture these swimming horses knocking others out of the way and not stopping to give a hand up. I imagine this competition fierce, the swimmers are no gentlemen and bogart their way aggressively towards a win from the moment they are unleashed. It’s pretty exciting, like the wild-wild-west with adrenaline and everything. What those swimmers need though is a sheriff because you can’t just have them robbing every stage coach in town, tipping them over and leaving all those little hungry stallions everywhere. No, that is so uncivilized. So put your badges on men, cowboy up and show those swimmers who’s boss. Oh, sure, the women folk will take care of those little stallions if you just leave them there but what kind of sherif worthy of his six-shooter would do a thing like that?
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