Last week was the big blood drive on campus. You give the Red Cross a pint of blood, and you get a free cookie. Boy, they are really making you work for that cookie. I thought the Red Cross was supposed to be charitable, but that is one tough-ass bake sale.
In a way, though, the Red Cross is doing something that no other group can do. Try buying baked goods that way any place else. You never see people down at the check-out line of the grocery store with packs of chocolate chip cookies saying, "Well, I don't actually have the money on me right now for the cookies, but I do have a pint of my own warm blood. Can we work something out?"
Forget the Red Cross Blood Drive -- I'd be more interested in a Red Cross Sperm Drive. Now that would be something. Actually, I don't really understand the sperm bank. Let me get this straight: you expect me to give you money, and all I get in return is the frozen sperm of a complete stranger. I don't think so. Maybe after that I'll go down to the public restroom and see about buying myself some urine.
And for the males donating sperm, I'm not even exactly sure what goes on in the sperm bank. You get a little cup, go into a little room; maybe get a few magazines, some snacks. A lot of guys all have the same reaction to donating sperm. "Well I was going to make a deposit into the bank, but you have to ... you know ... in a cup."
For men, you can actually get paid money now to donate your sperm. Which is basically supporting yourself through masturbation. "So, what do you do for a living?"
"I'm self-employed."
"Oh really, what field?"
"Uhhh ... manipulation. I'm a self-employed manipulator. It's a lot of self-manipulation."
The sperm bank is one place where there are some big differences between men and women. Another big difference between males and females is the way men and women refer to their same-sex friends. Women always call their female friends their "girlfriends." Girlfriends, what's up? Are you dating? You never hear guys talk about their friends like that, "Yup, me and my boyfriend Larry are goin' fishin' tomorrow mornin'. We're tight, Larry and I, he's my best fishin' boyfriend." I could never call another guy my boyfriend; it sounds too much like prison lingo.
The older and older people get, though, the harder it is to tell the difference between men and women. Everyone starts shrinking, wearing similar clothes, there's more shuffle-puck. A lot of elderly people are borderline androgynous. I swear the only way you can tell my grandparents apart is by their matching his-and- hers Cadillacs.
And my grandfather has finally reached the stage where he's starting to wear his pants higher. That's a rule: the older you are, the higher up you wear your pants. Past 85 years old, the pants are actually over your head; you have to cut eye holes in the belt loop to see.
I think the idea behind the pants over the head is to contain the warmth. Older people are more sensitive to the cold, and with the pants over the head its like having a warm hat on. My grandmother is always complaining about cold drafts everywhere we go; in a restaurant, in a movie theater, in a submarine -- she feels a draft.
We could be on a tour of the sun, "I feel a cold draft; someone get me a sweater." "Grandma, it's the sun; I think the people in charge would remember to close the window." Obviously, she isn't wearing her pants high enough.
So take a lesson from my grandmother, and with the coming of winter make sure that all of you start wearing your pants a little higher. Slightly below the nipple should be sufficient to stay warm even in the coldest months.
