So the sperm bank of the Leiden University Medical Center was in chaos at the beginning of this century. Any administrative employee who felt like putting a snack in the company freezer after lunch could go about his business. And how many children were ultimately conjured up from these cross-eyed accountants? No one knows that because the administration was a piece of shit.
For example, nine donors together have fathered more than 400 children, while they were legally only allowed to have 225. I think that’s a big number too. One gentleman is said to have made 90 babies on his own. That’s what it will be Jan Karzaad named.
But it means that, as a cheerful Leiden boy after a hot school party in Oegstgeest, there is a good chance that you will be in the bicycle shed having sex with your excited half-sister. And then let’s hope that it remains just tongues and that no pregnancy results.
It’s quite strange that nowadays as a young person you not only have to carry condoms with you, but that you also have to ask your loved one how he or she was conceived. Because you don’t want inbreeding.
A university sperm bank. Then you can hope that things are sorted out well. That those academics divide the quacks carefully. That not all mothers from the same zip code are fertilized with Mr. Jansen’s straw? Or am I setting too high standards with my not-so-well-filled MAVO head?
I used to look up to all those bright minds who had studied medicine and obtained their PhD in reproduction. But perhaps they should have thought a little longer about a distribution law. That the ‘thimbles of starch’ scored were cleverly distributed across the Netherlands.
Has inbreeding already taken place in our country? I’m afraid so. Why do I think that? Because the municipality of Amsterdam employs people who have to come up with new street names for a new construction project in Amsterdam West. Because many historical bastards are absolutely no longer able to do it, they very carefully came up with herbs and spices. I suspect Saffraanplein, Vanillesteeg, Parsleypad and so on. But Nutmegstraat has been deleted because of its association with our colonial past. How hard can you laugh? I would have loved to have been at that meeting to ask the idiot who seriously brought up this nonsense there, what we are doing with the Clove Boulevard and the Turmeric Allee. And I would cry really hard if the woke wauwelaar poured himself a cup of tea. Tea is so wrong. Read Hella Haasse again. Not to mention coffee.
Wouldn’t it be more fun to come up with less cheesy street names for Amsterdam? Mushroom path, Ketamineplein, Heroïnhaven and the Ayahuascavaart, which runs parallel to the Amphetaminelaan. And that we ask the gifted street artist Judith de Leeuw to create images on the apartment buildings with fourteen-year-old performers in their Moncler jackets, their limited edition sneakers from Philipp Plein and their other accessories from Gucci and associates. And of course a real Rolex on the child’s wrist plus an anklet previously scored by the Ministry of Justice. And all this against the backdrop of a container ship that does not dare to sail through the Red Sea. Wimps. We learned at an early age: real men go through the red sea.
Speaking of real men: my best friend called me asking if I would like to spare Dilan Yesilgöz a bit this week. Simply because it’s too easy to dismiss this poor girl. According to him, I should leave that to the VVD conference next week. I have to write something positive about the steadfast Eric van der Burg, who persevered fiercely and therefore saved Ter Apel. Simply because the Netherlands does not want Gaza.
And now? We are going to distribute the refugees fairly. Each village takes a small number and they mingle with the Dutch. Living around the corner from each other, falling in love, getting married, starting businesses and having nice children. The new Dutch. That seems a lot more fun and healthier to me than that sad bickering at an academic sperm bank.