Come at me with this knife, Johnson.
Sir?
You heard me, Johnson. Attack me. No hesitations. No mercy. No restraint.
Begging your pardon sir, but--
Dammit, Johnson! Your role in this is not to question my orders but to execute them!
Of course, sir.
Then enough with this patter, Johnson. On with the task then.
Right away, sir.
---
Well then?
Terribly sorry, sir.
Would you like me to attack you first, Johnson? Is that what this is all about?
Not at all, sir.
Afraid you might hurt me then? Is that it, Johnson? Do you question my ability to defend myself against a subordinate?
Of course not, sir.
It may surprise you to learn that you are not the first man whose blows I will have parried. I'll have you know I was holding my own in all manners of hand to hand combat when you were failing to hold your own against a diaper.
Very good, sir.
Are we understood then, Johnson?
Yes, sir.
Then enough of this mucking about, Johnson. Carry out the order with which you have been tasked.
Yes, sir . . . Are you ready, sir?
Dammit, Johnson!
Sorry, sir. OK, here it comes, sir . . . Agh.
Good Lord in heaven, Johnson. What was that?
Sir?
If that is your idea of an attack, then I do fear for the future of my beloved republic.
Terribly sorry, sir.
Do you think me a feeble old man, Johnson? Is that it? Incapable of fighting off the attacks of someone less than half my age?
Of course not, sir.
Understand this, Johnson: You may have me in the youth department. I'll readily grant you that. But experience trumps youth in any contest, Johnson. Any contest at all! Understand that and you'll have taken your first step.
Yes, sir.
Would you like to try again, Johnson?
Yes, sir.
There you go, Johnson. That's the old fighting spirit. All right then. Attack at will! Come at me with all you've got, old boy. This old man will be more than ready, don't fret about that.
Yes, sir.
No warnings necessary, Johnson. You've got to be ready at any time. You see, a good soldier never lets his guard down, Johnson. Why, in my early--
AGH!!!!!
My God, Johnson! Have you gone completely mental?
Sir?
You damn near took my ear off!
Very sorry, sir.
For God's sake, man! Do wait until I've finished talking before you try to take my head off--if you don't mind, that is. Assuming that jibes with your murderous M.O.?
Terribly sorry, sir.
Good God, Johnson. You came damn close to making a shish kabob of my eyeball--though I must say you demonstrated quite a bit of spirit there.
Thank you, sir.
Yes indeed, Johnson. Quite a bit of verve indeed.
Thank you, sir.
Though I don't recall anyone telling you to smile, Johnson.
Of course not, sir.
Yes indeed, Johnson. You're coming along quite nicely. Quite--
AGH!!!
Oh that's quite enough of that, Johnson.
Very good, sir.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Monday, August 2, 2010
August 2 - A Spot of Bother at the Lift
Right, so I was on the lift and the doors were closing, and I could tell that the last two people weren't going to make it, so I gave them a nice double barrel attack of the middle fingers as the doors were closing, you know, just for a laugh. A bit of the old insult to injury, you know, as the last thing the miserable sods see before the doors close is my ugly mug flipping them a couple of birds.
Would've been brilliant but some helpful bloke behind me hit the door open button at the last possible second, and I had to back up and make room for them and try to pretend like the whole digit flipping incident never happened. And the really awkward part was that neither of them acknowledged it and we all just rode up together in silence like you always do on the goddamn lift.
But naturally the ride took forever because the lift stopped at every floor, and of course the person who wanted to get off was in the back of the lift, so the geezer I'd flipped off had to get off to let them by, and every time he got back on the lift, that metal hat rack contraption his IV drip was hanging on got caught in the tracks of the sliding doors and his naughty slag of a nurse had to help him dig it out, the miserable bastard.
So anyway, I get to the room and there's Kelly and we hug and everything, and I'm like, Where's your dad? Is that one him? indicating some bloke asleep on the other side of the room. And she's just about to tell me no when the IV geezer from the lift shuffles in and of course he's her father, and after they get through all that pratter about how you doing and all that, she introduces us, and he's far cooler about it than his nurse. He even smiles a bit in a let bygones be bygones kind of way, but his nurse just glowers at me like she caught me trying to nick a tenner from the collection jar at the nurses' station, the old crow.
Anyways, the visit is OK, I guess, but after the first few minutes it's pretty clear that my services aren't needed there anymore, it's all about Kelly and her dad, so I just sit on the extra chair like a bit of last Sunday's pasties.
And then about 14 hours later when we're finally allowed to leave, old Mr. Magnanimous makes a big show of getting up out of bed and shaking me hand again, which was brilliant because by then I'd all but forgotten that I was supposed to feel like a tool for flipping him off all those hours ago.
As far as first meetings go, I suppose mine and Kelly's pop's wasn't the worst one ever, but I think I'm always going to hold a bit of grudge for him not giving me any grief over the lift incident. If he'd just unleashed a spot of the old vitriol on me and then was shut of it, we could have gotten on with our lives. Instead he treated me nicely and I felt like a right twat for the rest of the day. Don't know if I'll ever be able to let that one go.
Would've been brilliant but some helpful bloke behind me hit the door open button at the last possible second, and I had to back up and make room for them and try to pretend like the whole digit flipping incident never happened. And the really awkward part was that neither of them acknowledged it and we all just rode up together in silence like you always do on the goddamn lift.
But naturally the ride took forever because the lift stopped at every floor, and of course the person who wanted to get off was in the back of the lift, so the geezer I'd flipped off had to get off to let them by, and every time he got back on the lift, that metal hat rack contraption his IV drip was hanging on got caught in the tracks of the sliding doors and his naughty slag of a nurse had to help him dig it out, the miserable bastard.
So anyway, I get to the room and there's Kelly and we hug and everything, and I'm like, Where's your dad? Is that one him? indicating some bloke asleep on the other side of the room. And she's just about to tell me no when the IV geezer from the lift shuffles in and of course he's her father, and after they get through all that pratter about how you doing and all that, she introduces us, and he's far cooler about it than his nurse. He even smiles a bit in a let bygones be bygones kind of way, but his nurse just glowers at me like she caught me trying to nick a tenner from the collection jar at the nurses' station, the old crow.
Anyways, the visit is OK, I guess, but after the first few minutes it's pretty clear that my services aren't needed there anymore, it's all about Kelly and her dad, so I just sit on the extra chair like a bit of last Sunday's pasties.
And then about 14 hours later when we're finally allowed to leave, old Mr. Magnanimous makes a big show of getting up out of bed and shaking me hand again, which was brilliant because by then I'd all but forgotten that I was supposed to feel like a tool for flipping him off all those hours ago.
As far as first meetings go, I suppose mine and Kelly's pop's wasn't the worst one ever, but I think I'm always going to hold a bit of grudge for him not giving me any grief over the lift incident. If he'd just unleashed a spot of the old vitriol on me and then was shut of it, we could have gotten on with our lives. Instead he treated me nicely and I felt like a right twat for the rest of the day. Don't know if I'll ever be able to let that one go.
Saturday, July 31, 2010
August 1 - Maggie and the Mongrel Dynasty
The jig is up when the twins are born. The son, Paul, is white like his parents. The daughter, Maggie, is mixed race like hers.
It's called heteropaternal superfecundation--an extremely rare phenomenon in which each child in a set of twins is conceived by a different father.
Ben, the husband of the mother and the father of Paul, doesn't take it well. He shows up to a meeting of the three parents carrying a gun. After an argument escalates into a fight, there are two gunshots: one for his wife, the other for her lover, the father of the girl.
Paul and Maggie are awakened by the gunshots and are crying in the next room. Ben takes a deep breath and walks into the babies' bedroom. He stands over Maggie's crib and points the gun at her.
Maggie looks up, stops crying, and locks eyes with him. Squints.
Ben pulls the trigger. It jams.
Maggie chuckles.
His hands tremble as he tries to unjam the gun. The faint sound of sirens in the distance grows louder.
He clears the jam and then drops the gun, now slick with sweat, into the crib. Maggie rolls over on top of the gun, and her diaper and blanket get tangled up in it. As Ben frantically tries to untangle the gun and get it out from under her, Maggie's diaper becomes unfastened and she lets loose with a generous helping of #2 all over the gun.
"Shit!" yells Ben.
The sirens grow louder and closer as Ben wipes the gun clean with Maggie's blanket. Then he levels it at her, says good night, and pulls the trigger. It jams again.
There is pounding at the door. The police. He stands over the crib trying to unjam the gun, but it's no use. He looks at Maggie a final time and she looks back, her aqua blue eyes freezing him in his place for a few seconds that feel much longer. He shakes it off, puts the gun in his pants, grabs Paul, and escapes through the back window.
Over the next few months, Maggie bounces around child services and various orphanages before being adopted by Henry and Wendy Lin, a childless Asian American couple from San Francisco--as far as official records are concerned.
However, a couple weeks later, the Lins return to their real home in China and enroll Maggie in the Lin Xiao Ping Finishing School for Female Orphans of Mixed Race Parentage, where children such as Maggie are schooled in philosophy, the sciences, mathematics, world languages, international relations, art, literature, history, psychology, acrobatics, mixed martial arts, survival training, and marksmanship.
Lin Finishing is no ordinary school for orphans; it is a training academy and feeder school for China's most notorious, secretive, and deadly assassination squad, the Mongrel Dynasty. For more than 200 years, mixed race orphan girls from around the world have been brought to the Lins' school and trained in the ancient art of Finishing or assassination.
The girls--or sisters--of Lin Finishing and the Mongrel Dynasty are the perfect assassins. They come from nowhere, they have no past, and they are impossible to track. From before the time when they can walk or talk, they are trained as cunning, resourceful, remorseless, skilled, and disciplined killers.
Maggie quickly rises to the top of her class.
By the end of her 12th year at Lin Finishing, Maggie is fluent in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, Portuguese, French, Arabic, Hebrew, and Flemish. While girls her age in other parts of the world are choosing between pony camp and cheer leading, Maggie is choosing between metallurgy and toxicology.
A few years later, as millions of other girls her age are learning to drive cars, Maggie is learning to fly helicopters.
The next year, as girls her age are applying for college and working part-time at the mall, Maggie is carrying out her first solo jobs: taking out a corrupt politician-cum-diamond magnate in Lagos, a Hamas militant in Gaza, and a rogue Mossad agent in Tel Aviv.
When Maggie turns 18 and graduates from Lin Finishing to become a Mongrel Dynasty team leader, Henry and Wendy tell her about her past, as they do with all their girls upon completion of the school.
After giving the matter approximately 10 seconds of reflection, Maggie makes the murderer of her biological parents her next target. She knows very little about the man, only his name and a last known address that is more than 18 years old.
Even still, less than three days later, she is standing in his living room. Evading the police and the FBI for 18 years isn't easy. But evading a sister of the Mongrel Dynasty isn't possible.
Maggie looks her target in the eye and raises her gun to fire. In the moment their eyes lock, Ben recognizes her--with those aqua blue eyes--as the grown up version of the girl he'd tried to kill all those years ago.
"Don't kill me."
"I don't want you. I want Paul. Where is he?"
"Don't kill me."
"I said I don't want you. I want Paul. Where is he?"
"If I tell you, you won't kill me?"
She cocks her gun.
"OK, OK. He's in Albuquerque."
And she knows he's telling the truth because, as always, she's done her homework. The only surprising thing is how quickly he rolls over on his son.
"How does it feel to die knowing that your last act on earth was trying to save yourself by giving up your own son?"
But she shoots him before he can give her an answer.
Afterwards, she cleans the crime scene and destroys all the evidence and goes to the airport to board a flight not to Albuquerque but to Hong Kong. Her only business with her half brother had been completed before she left China.
A few days after Paul learns about the murder of his father, a Chinese lawyer contacts him to tell him that a $2 million education fund has been set up in his name by an anonymous donor. And that's the closest he ever comes to any sort of interaction with his half sister Maggie, one of the deadliest assassins in the world.
It's called heteropaternal superfecundation--an extremely rare phenomenon in which each child in a set of twins is conceived by a different father.
Ben, the husband of the mother and the father of Paul, doesn't take it well. He shows up to a meeting of the three parents carrying a gun. After an argument escalates into a fight, there are two gunshots: one for his wife, the other for her lover, the father of the girl.
Paul and Maggie are awakened by the gunshots and are crying in the next room. Ben takes a deep breath and walks into the babies' bedroom. He stands over Maggie's crib and points the gun at her.
Maggie looks up, stops crying, and locks eyes with him. Squints.
Ben pulls the trigger. It jams.
Maggie chuckles.
His hands tremble as he tries to unjam the gun. The faint sound of sirens in the distance grows louder.
He clears the jam and then drops the gun, now slick with sweat, into the crib. Maggie rolls over on top of the gun, and her diaper and blanket get tangled up in it. As Ben frantically tries to untangle the gun and get it out from under her, Maggie's diaper becomes unfastened and she lets loose with a generous helping of #2 all over the gun.
"Shit!" yells Ben.
The sirens grow louder and closer as Ben wipes the gun clean with Maggie's blanket. Then he levels it at her, says good night, and pulls the trigger. It jams again.
There is pounding at the door. The police. He stands over the crib trying to unjam the gun, but it's no use. He looks at Maggie a final time and she looks back, her aqua blue eyes freezing him in his place for a few seconds that feel much longer. He shakes it off, puts the gun in his pants, grabs Paul, and escapes through the back window.
Over the next few months, Maggie bounces around child services and various orphanages before being adopted by Henry and Wendy Lin, a childless Asian American couple from San Francisco--as far as official records are concerned.
However, a couple weeks later, the Lins return to their real home in China and enroll Maggie in the Lin Xiao Ping Finishing School for Female Orphans of Mixed Race Parentage, where children such as Maggie are schooled in philosophy, the sciences, mathematics, world languages, international relations, art, literature, history, psychology, acrobatics, mixed martial arts, survival training, and marksmanship.
Lin Finishing is no ordinary school for orphans; it is a training academy and feeder school for China's most notorious, secretive, and deadly assassination squad, the Mongrel Dynasty. For more than 200 years, mixed race orphan girls from around the world have been brought to the Lins' school and trained in the ancient art of Finishing or assassination.
The girls--or sisters--of Lin Finishing and the Mongrel Dynasty are the perfect assassins. They come from nowhere, they have no past, and they are impossible to track. From before the time when they can walk or talk, they are trained as cunning, resourceful, remorseless, skilled, and disciplined killers.
Maggie quickly rises to the top of her class.
By the end of her 12th year at Lin Finishing, Maggie is fluent in Mandarin, Cantonese, English, Portuguese, French, Arabic, Hebrew, and Flemish. While girls her age in other parts of the world are choosing between pony camp and cheer leading, Maggie is choosing between metallurgy and toxicology.
A few years later, as millions of other girls her age are learning to drive cars, Maggie is learning to fly helicopters.
The next year, as girls her age are applying for college and working part-time at the mall, Maggie is carrying out her first solo jobs: taking out a corrupt politician-cum-diamond magnate in Lagos, a Hamas militant in Gaza, and a rogue Mossad agent in Tel Aviv.
When Maggie turns 18 and graduates from Lin Finishing to become a Mongrel Dynasty team leader, Henry and Wendy tell her about her past, as they do with all their girls upon completion of the school.
After giving the matter approximately 10 seconds of reflection, Maggie makes the murderer of her biological parents her next target. She knows very little about the man, only his name and a last known address that is more than 18 years old.
Even still, less than three days later, she is standing in his living room. Evading the police and the FBI for 18 years isn't easy. But evading a sister of the Mongrel Dynasty isn't possible.
Maggie looks her target in the eye and raises her gun to fire. In the moment their eyes lock, Ben recognizes her--with those aqua blue eyes--as the grown up version of the girl he'd tried to kill all those years ago.
"Don't kill me."
"I don't want you. I want Paul. Where is he?"
"Don't kill me."
"I said I don't want you. I want Paul. Where is he?"
"If I tell you, you won't kill me?"
She cocks her gun.
"OK, OK. He's in Albuquerque."
And she knows he's telling the truth because, as always, she's done her homework. The only surprising thing is how quickly he rolls over on his son.
"How does it feel to die knowing that your last act on earth was trying to save yourself by giving up your own son?"
But she shoots him before he can give her an answer.
Afterwards, she cleans the crime scene and destroys all the evidence and goes to the airport to board a flight not to Albuquerque but to Hong Kong. Her only business with her half brother had been completed before she left China.
A few days after Paul learns about the murder of his father, a Chinese lawyer contacts him to tell him that a $2 million education fund has been set up in his name by an anonymous donor. And that's the closest he ever comes to any sort of interaction with his half sister Maggie, one of the deadliest assassins in the world.
Friday, July 30, 2010
July 31 - Tempting Fate
Stu: Who are you texting?
Cliff: Dan. Gotta bust his balls about this at least a little.
Stu: Game's not over.
Cliff: I know, don't worry. I won't send it until it's over. Just writing it now.
Stu: Don't jinx us.
Cliff: I just said I know. Even though it is totally over.
Stu: Not over enough.
Cliff: It's 10 - 1. Ninth inning.
Stu: I know.
Cliff: The Phillies haven't done shit all day. Look at their dugout. They've basically written this one off. They're resting everyone for Sunday.
Stu: No doubt, but still. You know my position on this.
Cliff: Don't worry. I'm not hitting send even though I totally should because this game is so clearly over. Speaking of which, why haven't we left?
Stu: Like I said.
Cliff: No, I know. Don't jinx it, blah, blah, blah. But have you ever stopped to think how ridiculous that superstition is? Like there's some omniscient being watching over this game, completely impartial, but totally ready to intervene and effect the outcome if one random fan somewhere starts celebrating before it's officially over? This one bullshit game. And never mind that there are tens of thousands of other people watching this game, any one of whom could prematurely chalk it up as a win and thus incur the wrath of whatever being it is that monitors such things, causing him/her/it to change the outcome just to spite us.
Stu shrugs.
Cliff: It's kind of hilarious how, I don't know, absurd and arrogant that is, if you think about it. To think that of all the people in the world watching this game, you alone are the one that has the power to jinx it.
Stu: Ain't over til it's over. That's all I'm saying.
Cliff: OK, I know this is probably going to piss you off, but (Stands up and shouts) We won! We won! Game over! There's no way we're not walking away from this one as losers! (Sits down again) Oh, and watch this. I'm sending the text to Dan right now.
Stu: You're tempting fate.
Cliff: Here it goes. Hitting send. Oh my God.
Stu: You're a dick, man. I swear to God, if we lose . . .
Cliff: Dude, if we lose I'll suck your dick, OK?
Stu: Eww. Jesus.
Cliff: Just saying. I mean, the game's over. We won. I promise.
Elsewhere in the universe, on another plane of existence, the wrong/right omniscient being sees it all.
Twenty minutes later, Cliff is blowing Stu in the men's room when he receives a text from Dan, taunting him over the Yankees' epic 9th inning meltdown.
Cliff: Dan. Gotta bust his balls about this at least a little.
Stu: Game's not over.
Cliff: I know, don't worry. I won't send it until it's over. Just writing it now.
Stu: Don't jinx us.
Cliff: I just said I know. Even though it is totally over.
Stu: Not over enough.
Cliff: It's 10 - 1. Ninth inning.
Stu: I know.
Cliff: The Phillies haven't done shit all day. Look at their dugout. They've basically written this one off. They're resting everyone for Sunday.
Stu: No doubt, but still. You know my position on this.
Cliff: Don't worry. I'm not hitting send even though I totally should because this game is so clearly over. Speaking of which, why haven't we left?
Stu: Like I said.
Cliff: No, I know. Don't jinx it, blah, blah, blah. But have you ever stopped to think how ridiculous that superstition is? Like there's some omniscient being watching over this game, completely impartial, but totally ready to intervene and effect the outcome if one random fan somewhere starts celebrating before it's officially over? This one bullshit game. And never mind that there are tens of thousands of other people watching this game, any one of whom could prematurely chalk it up as a win and thus incur the wrath of whatever being it is that monitors such things, causing him/her/it to change the outcome just to spite us.
Stu shrugs.
Cliff: It's kind of hilarious how, I don't know, absurd and arrogant that is, if you think about it. To think that of all the people in the world watching this game, you alone are the one that has the power to jinx it.
Stu: Ain't over til it's over. That's all I'm saying.
Cliff: OK, I know this is probably going to piss you off, but (Stands up and shouts) We won! We won! Game over! There's no way we're not walking away from this one as losers! (Sits down again) Oh, and watch this. I'm sending the text to Dan right now.
Stu: You're tempting fate.
Cliff: Here it goes. Hitting send. Oh my God.
Stu: You're a dick, man. I swear to God, if we lose . . .
Cliff: Dude, if we lose I'll suck your dick, OK?
Stu: Eww. Jesus.
Cliff: Just saying. I mean, the game's over. We won. I promise.
Elsewhere in the universe, on another plane of existence, the wrong/right omniscient being sees it all.
Twenty minutes later, Cliff is blowing Stu in the men's room when he receives a text from Dan, taunting him over the Yankees' epic 9th inning meltdown.
Thursday, July 29, 2010
July 30 - Serenity Birthing Resort
A young, well-dressed couple sat in the office of Linda Gladstone, assistant director of marketing and outreach for Serenity Birthing Resort.
"Well, yes. To answer your question, we do have our own in-house genetic engineering department that monitors the growth and development of all of Serenity's youngest residents; however, many parents also feel more comfortable with regular visits from their own bioengineers as well."
"I hope you don't mind all our questions," said the young husband.
"Of course not," Linda said. "Finding the right birthing center is one of the biggest decisions you will make for your child. Please ask all the questions you like."
"Another one of my--our--concerns is language," the woman said.
"Yes, of course. Now, your surrogate is from," she glanced at her monitor, "The Democratic Republic of Nepal. You went through Annapurna Surrogates?"
"Yes."
"Good choice. On both counts. The Nepalese surrogates we've hosted have been incredibly easy to work with. For whatever reason, they really seem to have a calming influence on the other surrogates. Since the DRN reopened their borders, we've seen a big influx in Nepalese surrogates. It's like the Ukraine Federation of the '40s. And Annapurna Surrogates is incredibly selective. They reject more than 99% of applications from would be surrogates. So, again, good choice, but I'm sure you already know that. Anyway, about language: Concerning your case, we do have three care coordinators on staff who are fluent in Nepalese, so she'll be well taken care of. And of course we encourage all the surrogates at Serenity to take advantage of our free ESL classes, which most of them do with excellent results."
"How much of a problem is language at Serenity? We understand you have surrogates there from all around the world."
"Well, it is an issue. We always make every effort to have care coordinators on staff who speak the surrogates' language or languages; however, it's not always possible. At any one time, we have over 10,000 surrogate that speak more than 300 different first languages. What's more, the majority of them are illiterate in their native language, which, obviously presents a whole new host of challenges. That's why, as much as possible, we've largely taken language out of the equation for PEP, our Prenatal Education Program. Nowadays, more than 90% of PEP is conducted nonverbally via diagrams, animated films, and life-sized animatronic replicants. "
"Robots," the man said.
"That's a bit un-PC, don't you think?" his wife said.
Linda laughed. "You and my husband would get along. Yes, robots, replicants, whatever you want to call them. The surrogates really respond to them, which never fails to amaze some of the care coordinators."
"Why's that?"
"Well, they--the care coordinators-- just assume that the surrogates won't be comfortable around robots or replicants or whatever because they're so out of their frame of reference. As you know, almost all of our surrogates come from very underdeveloped countries. Pretty much everything about this whole experience is new to them, so it can be overwhelming at first. But the replicants are very well programmed and incredibly attentive, and the women find them quite comforting." She smiled and shrugged.
"Now, what about the 'glowshops'? I get it, but my wife still has some misgivings about the whole issue. Could you help put her mind at ease?"
"You read the Simmons article."
They nodded.
"Well, first off, let me say that you are absolutely right to be concerned. You would have to be inhuman not to be. There were some serious allegations in that article. And while I feel like we have always been an open book of transparency at Serenity--and by the way, so do the American Surrogates Council, the American Pediatrics Council, the AMA, the International Coalition of Labor Standards, you name it--it's understandable to have some doubts, and I'm very glad you brought this issue up.
"Surrogates generally spend at least nine months, often longer, at our birthing resort. During this time, their health and safety and the health and safety of your child are our top priorities. Their diet, health care, education, counseling, and monitoring all greatly exceed ASC standards. Ask any surrogate--and we encourage you to do so during our tour of the campus later on--and they'll assure that they are well taken care of. And the final six weeks of pregnancy in particular are like a vacation. Lots of time in tranquility spas and nature simulators. During the home stretch of pregnancy, your surrogate will experience the sort of pampering and luxury that would make mega-celebs and royalty envious.
"However, during the months preceding that time, we encourage your surrogate to stay active through exercise, classes, and, yes, employment. There are several reasons for this. One is that having a working surrogate can help offset the financial burden of an extended stay at a birthing center. Although study after study has proven that for couples in certain higher level income brackets such as yours, it is more economically feasible to outsource their pregnancy to a surrogate than it is to absorb the financial hit that is incurred in unpaid pregnancy leave, birthing centers in general--and birthing resorts in particular--can get expensive. Having a surrogate that works, even part-time, can help.
"Moreover, many women use their experience as a surrogate as their first step toward citizenship. By joining an artisan group or ethnic crafts workshop, they can learn valuable skills that will make them infinitely more attractive to prospective employers in the future.
"Finally, and this can't be overstated, it is incredibly beneficial to both the mental and emotional health of the surrogate to be as active as possible during the pregnancy."
The man looked at his wife. "OK?"
"I'm sorry I'm so concerned about the possibility that the woman who is carrying our child might be forced to engage in slave labor. Forgive me."
"It's a legitimate concern," said Linda. "During the last 10 years, the birthing center/birthing resort industry has experienced tremendous growth, but unfortunately, government oversight hasn't always kept pace. However, Serenity has always been committed to having greater governmental regulations of the industry. And you should be suspicious of any organization that isn't."
The woman seemed reluctantly satisfied. "We'll be able to visit her, of course."
"Absolutely. We encourage biweekly visits, particularly during the beginning and toward the end of the pregnancy. These visits really help to put everyone's mind more at ease. It's a big change and it helps to go through it together. At Serenity, we recognize that birthing through a surrogate isn't just any business partnership. It's a partnership for life."
"Well, yes. To answer your question, we do have our own in-house genetic engineering department that monitors the growth and development of all of Serenity's youngest residents; however, many parents also feel more comfortable with regular visits from their own bioengineers as well."
"I hope you don't mind all our questions," said the young husband.
"Of course not," Linda said. "Finding the right birthing center is one of the biggest decisions you will make for your child. Please ask all the questions you like."
"Another one of my--our--concerns is language," the woman said.
"Yes, of course. Now, your surrogate is from," she glanced at her monitor, "The Democratic Republic of Nepal. You went through Annapurna Surrogates?"
"Yes."
"Good choice. On both counts. The Nepalese surrogates we've hosted have been incredibly easy to work with. For whatever reason, they really seem to have a calming influence on the other surrogates. Since the DRN reopened their borders, we've seen a big influx in Nepalese surrogates. It's like the Ukraine Federation of the '40s. And Annapurna Surrogates is incredibly selective. They reject more than 99% of applications from would be surrogates. So, again, good choice, but I'm sure you already know that. Anyway, about language: Concerning your case, we do have three care coordinators on staff who are fluent in Nepalese, so she'll be well taken care of. And of course we encourage all the surrogates at Serenity to take advantage of our free ESL classes, which most of them do with excellent results."
"How much of a problem is language at Serenity? We understand you have surrogates there from all around the world."
"Well, it is an issue. We always make every effort to have care coordinators on staff who speak the surrogates' language or languages; however, it's not always possible. At any one time, we have over 10,000 surrogate that speak more than 300 different first languages. What's more, the majority of them are illiterate in their native language, which, obviously presents a whole new host of challenges. That's why, as much as possible, we've largely taken language out of the equation for PEP, our Prenatal Education Program. Nowadays, more than 90% of PEP is conducted nonverbally via diagrams, animated films, and life-sized animatronic replicants. "
"Robots," the man said.
"That's a bit un-PC, don't you think?" his wife said.
Linda laughed. "You and my husband would get along. Yes, robots, replicants, whatever you want to call them. The surrogates really respond to them, which never fails to amaze some of the care coordinators."
"Why's that?"
"Well, they--the care coordinators-- just assume that the surrogates won't be comfortable around robots or replicants or whatever because they're so out of their frame of reference. As you know, almost all of our surrogates come from very underdeveloped countries. Pretty much everything about this whole experience is new to them, so it can be overwhelming at first. But the replicants are very well programmed and incredibly attentive, and the women find them quite comforting." She smiled and shrugged.
"Now, what about the 'glowshops'? I get it, but my wife still has some misgivings about the whole issue. Could you help put her mind at ease?"
"You read the Simmons article."
They nodded.
"Well, first off, let me say that you are absolutely right to be concerned. You would have to be inhuman not to be. There were some serious allegations in that article. And while I feel like we have always been an open book of transparency at Serenity--and by the way, so do the American Surrogates Council, the American Pediatrics Council, the AMA, the International Coalition of Labor Standards, you name it--it's understandable to have some doubts, and I'm very glad you brought this issue up.
"Surrogates generally spend at least nine months, often longer, at our birthing resort. During this time, their health and safety and the health and safety of your child are our top priorities. Their diet, health care, education, counseling, and monitoring all greatly exceed ASC standards. Ask any surrogate--and we encourage you to do so during our tour of the campus later on--and they'll assure that they are well taken care of. And the final six weeks of pregnancy in particular are like a vacation. Lots of time in tranquility spas and nature simulators. During the home stretch of pregnancy, your surrogate will experience the sort of pampering and luxury that would make mega-celebs and royalty envious.
"However, during the months preceding that time, we encourage your surrogate to stay active through exercise, classes, and, yes, employment. There are several reasons for this. One is that having a working surrogate can help offset the financial burden of an extended stay at a birthing center. Although study after study has proven that for couples in certain higher level income brackets such as yours, it is more economically feasible to outsource their pregnancy to a surrogate than it is to absorb the financial hit that is incurred in unpaid pregnancy leave, birthing centers in general--and birthing resorts in particular--can get expensive. Having a surrogate that works, even part-time, can help.
"Moreover, many women use their experience as a surrogate as their first step toward citizenship. By joining an artisan group or ethnic crafts workshop, they can learn valuable skills that will make them infinitely more attractive to prospective employers in the future.
"Finally, and this can't be overstated, it is incredibly beneficial to both the mental and emotional health of the surrogate to be as active as possible during the pregnancy."
The man looked at his wife. "OK?"
"I'm sorry I'm so concerned about the possibility that the woman who is carrying our child might be forced to engage in slave labor. Forgive me."
"It's a legitimate concern," said Linda. "During the last 10 years, the birthing center/birthing resort industry has experienced tremendous growth, but unfortunately, government oversight hasn't always kept pace. However, Serenity has always been committed to having greater governmental regulations of the industry. And you should be suspicious of any organization that isn't."
The woman seemed reluctantly satisfied. "We'll be able to visit her, of course."
"Absolutely. We encourage biweekly visits, particularly during the beginning and toward the end of the pregnancy. These visits really help to put everyone's mind more at ease. It's a big change and it helps to go through it together. At Serenity, we recognize that birthing through a surrogate isn't just any business partnership. It's a partnership for life."
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
July 29 - The Unicycle Gang
Most of the girls who went to Sandra Day O'Conner All Girls Kindergarten lived close enough to the school to walk there. One day Mr. Samuelson, a teacher at Sandra Day (as they called it) with a background in science, came up with the idea to give the girls power generating unicycles to commute to school with.
He had outfitted the unicycles that were used in the girls' PE classes with power converters that would generate electricity every time the unicycles were pedaled. The electricity was stored in battery sized power cells that could then be removed from the unicycles and used to power the school.
It was a win/win situation: The girls had a fun and healthy way to commute to and from school, and the school had a renewable source of clean energy.
The problem came when Mr. Samuelson started organizing contests and competitions to boost productivity. Each class was divided into teams consisting of seven girls, and the team that could fill the most power cells within X amount of time would win a pizza party.
Things started out amicably enough, but it wasn't long before one particularly enterprising group of girls started borrowing some of the extra unicycles after school and taking them to neighborhood playgrounds, where they would chase down the other kids--the girls had become quite fast and skilled on their unicycles--and force them to pedal the extra unicycles and generate more power for them.
Unlike the Sandra Day girls--who had learned how to ride unicycles in PE class--the other neighborhood kids didn't have the balance to stay up on a unicycle. That, along with the girls' worrying about the kids riding off with the unicycles, was what prompted the girls to come up with the monkey bar solution: a makeshift unicycle harness that was dangled from the top of the monkey bars.
During that spring, every day after school was a terrifying time for the pre-schoolers in the once safe neighborhood near Sandra Day. One moment the kids were carelessly swinging, sliding, and playing. The next, a gang of unicycle pedaling, dodge ball toting psycho tots had shown up and was corralling them into the sandbox and forcing them up to the top of the monkey bars for five minute pedal shifts.
Threats were doled out. Don't talk. We know where you live. Before long, the playgrounds were empty. The pre-schoolers stopped coming, but by then it didn't matter to the Unicycle Gang. They had more than enough power cells to win their pizza party several times over. But more importantly, they had a taste for power.
The only problem was that the other kids in the neighborhood knew about them and never left their homes anymore, so the girls had to branch out into new neighborhoods. Every day after school they hopped on their unicycles and pedaled furiously to increasingly outlying neighborhoods where they held unsuspecting kids hostage and forced them to power up the spare unicycles they carried with them.
Sometimes they placed them on monkey bars like before. Other times they forced two kids to hold a unicycle off the ground while a third kid pedaled it. Whatever the case, they generated a lot of power.
With the pizza contest finished and Mr. Samuelson's mind occupied by other things, the girls were able to keep a lot of the extra energy from the unicycles for themselves. For every three power cells they gave to Sandra Day, they kept one for themselves. Before long they had enough to sell to a power station. They used the money from the sale to purchase a portable PlayStation 4, which they played nonstop before figuring out that it could be a huge money maker.
Short on memory, the girls' erstwhile victims from the neighborhood spent their after school hours and milk money at the makeshift arcade the girls set up in their tree fort.
Before long they had enough money to buy a portable snow cone machine, which in turn brought in more money. And when kids couldn't afford to pay for their time on the PS4, they worked off their debt by riding one of three stationary power generating unicycles they set up in the garage. A second PS4 came next. Then a third. Then more stationary unicycles.
The girls' enterprise grew, and they controlled it ruthlessly. They always pedaled around together, beaming random kids with dodge balls to keep them in line. The other kids in the neighborhood feared them, but what could they do? The unicycle gang had a snow cone machine, three PS4 machines, an air conditioned tree fort, and crazy games from Japan that nobody else had, so they kept going back.
One day, in a rare moment of clarity, one of the addicts on the stationary unicycles realized that they far outnumbered the gang members. Moreover, after spinning for hours every day after school, they were in pretty good shape. He hatched a plan wherein he and the others would steal the unicycles and . . . that's as far as the plan got, but at least it was a start.
The time came, the boy gave the signal, and the others scurried for cover as the girls pelted him with dodge balls. His co-conspirators had rolled over on him, sold him out for extra time on the PS4.
From then on, the girls tried to limit the amount of time that their power generators spent together unsupervised. They also cultivated a network of informants and moles and played the generators against each other.
Their empire grew: seven PS4s, more games, a second franchise. Girl Scout troop 54 was enlisted as extra muscle and a reliable source of cheap cookies.
The school year ended and the girls all went to different elementary schools in the fall, but that only served to expand their power exponentially. New recruits were brought in from each of the schools the girls attended. At the height of their power, the Unicycle Gang had 42 members across town running four tree house arcades, and generating hundreds of dollars in revenue every month.
It didn't last.
Their fall came not in one climactic moment. There were no betrayals, no back stabbings. They weren't victims of their own hubris. Their descent into irrelevance was gradual. The kids in their neighborhood just moved on.
They got burned out on PS4 and snow cones, and joined Little League. They discovered ponies, took piano lessons, joined the Boy Scouts, and found other things to do. And by about a year after they had come to power, the Unicycle Gang had almost completely disbanded.
Ask them about the Unicycle Gang now, and most of the kids from that time will claim that they don't know what you're talking about. But there was a time when the Sandra Day Unicycle Gang was the most feared prepubescent gang in town.
He had outfitted the unicycles that were used in the girls' PE classes with power converters that would generate electricity every time the unicycles were pedaled. The electricity was stored in battery sized power cells that could then be removed from the unicycles and used to power the school.
It was a win/win situation: The girls had a fun and healthy way to commute to and from school, and the school had a renewable source of clean energy.
The problem came when Mr. Samuelson started organizing contests and competitions to boost productivity. Each class was divided into teams consisting of seven girls, and the team that could fill the most power cells within X amount of time would win a pizza party.
Things started out amicably enough, but it wasn't long before one particularly enterprising group of girls started borrowing some of the extra unicycles after school and taking them to neighborhood playgrounds, where they would chase down the other kids--the girls had become quite fast and skilled on their unicycles--and force them to pedal the extra unicycles and generate more power for them.
Unlike the Sandra Day girls--who had learned how to ride unicycles in PE class--the other neighborhood kids didn't have the balance to stay up on a unicycle. That, along with the girls' worrying about the kids riding off with the unicycles, was what prompted the girls to come up with the monkey bar solution: a makeshift unicycle harness that was dangled from the top of the monkey bars.
During that spring, every day after school was a terrifying time for the pre-schoolers in the once safe neighborhood near Sandra Day. One moment the kids were carelessly swinging, sliding, and playing. The next, a gang of unicycle pedaling, dodge ball toting psycho tots had shown up and was corralling them into the sandbox and forcing them up to the top of the monkey bars for five minute pedal shifts.
Threats were doled out. Don't talk. We know where you live. Before long, the playgrounds were empty. The pre-schoolers stopped coming, but by then it didn't matter to the Unicycle Gang. They had more than enough power cells to win their pizza party several times over. But more importantly, they had a taste for power.
The only problem was that the other kids in the neighborhood knew about them and never left their homes anymore, so the girls had to branch out into new neighborhoods. Every day after school they hopped on their unicycles and pedaled furiously to increasingly outlying neighborhoods where they held unsuspecting kids hostage and forced them to power up the spare unicycles they carried with them.
Sometimes they placed them on monkey bars like before. Other times they forced two kids to hold a unicycle off the ground while a third kid pedaled it. Whatever the case, they generated a lot of power.
With the pizza contest finished and Mr. Samuelson's mind occupied by other things, the girls were able to keep a lot of the extra energy from the unicycles for themselves. For every three power cells they gave to Sandra Day, they kept one for themselves. Before long they had enough to sell to a power station. They used the money from the sale to purchase a portable PlayStation 4, which they played nonstop before figuring out that it could be a huge money maker.
Short on memory, the girls' erstwhile victims from the neighborhood spent their after school hours and milk money at the makeshift arcade the girls set up in their tree fort.
Before long they had enough money to buy a portable snow cone machine, which in turn brought in more money. And when kids couldn't afford to pay for their time on the PS4, they worked off their debt by riding one of three stationary power generating unicycles they set up in the garage. A second PS4 came next. Then a third. Then more stationary unicycles.
The girls' enterprise grew, and they controlled it ruthlessly. They always pedaled around together, beaming random kids with dodge balls to keep them in line. The other kids in the neighborhood feared them, but what could they do? The unicycle gang had a snow cone machine, three PS4 machines, an air conditioned tree fort, and crazy games from Japan that nobody else had, so they kept going back.
One day, in a rare moment of clarity, one of the addicts on the stationary unicycles realized that they far outnumbered the gang members. Moreover, after spinning for hours every day after school, they were in pretty good shape. He hatched a plan wherein he and the others would steal the unicycles and . . . that's as far as the plan got, but at least it was a start.
The time came, the boy gave the signal, and the others scurried for cover as the girls pelted him with dodge balls. His co-conspirators had rolled over on him, sold him out for extra time on the PS4.
From then on, the girls tried to limit the amount of time that their power generators spent together unsupervised. They also cultivated a network of informants and moles and played the generators against each other.
Their empire grew: seven PS4s, more games, a second franchise. Girl Scout troop 54 was enlisted as extra muscle and a reliable source of cheap cookies.
The school year ended and the girls all went to different elementary schools in the fall, but that only served to expand their power exponentially. New recruits were brought in from each of the schools the girls attended. At the height of their power, the Unicycle Gang had 42 members across town running four tree house arcades, and generating hundreds of dollars in revenue every month.
It didn't last.
Their fall came not in one climactic moment. There were no betrayals, no back stabbings. They weren't victims of their own hubris. Their descent into irrelevance was gradual. The kids in their neighborhood just moved on.
They got burned out on PS4 and snow cones, and joined Little League. They discovered ponies, took piano lessons, joined the Boy Scouts, and found other things to do. And by about a year after they had come to power, the Unicycle Gang had almost completely disbanded.
Ask them about the Unicycle Gang now, and most of the kids from that time will claim that they don't know what you're talking about. But there was a time when the Sandra Day Unicycle Gang was the most feared prepubescent gang in town.
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