IT'S A LONG, LONG WAY TO YPSILANTI

It’s the real great race – a punishing and unforgiving test of endurance and survival. There is no second-place. You either win… or you die.

The odds against winning this race are staggering. You’re completely blind and you have no feet. Fortunately, it’s a level-playing field. The 300 million other competitors exploding out of the chute alongside of you have no eyeballs either and they’re footless, too. Thousands are dead or dying before they even get started. It’s that brutal. You’re struggling forward in futile desperation, relying purely on instinct, navigating terrain that is slippery and treacherous. You have no idea what lies ahead. Actually, you don’t even know where the finish line is. Why? 

Because you’re a human sperm cell.

And if you somehow manage to miraculously beat out your spermatozoa brethren and hit pay dirt first and then find purchase and hold on tight, and that ovum you’re burrowing into resides inside the uterus of a woman with a pedigree, with assets, some strategic real estate, maybe ownership in a company or two, or perhaps your little sperm-self was generated inside the left testicle of young Mr. Zuckerberg… then well done, little tadpole, well done indeed!

Okay, so you just won the lottery. What’s the point? 

"Sperm" is the point.

I love words, and "sperm" is a terrific word. The sound it makes as it escapes the lips is perfectly suited to the object it designates. What the hell else would you call the stuff? (Wait a minute - I just ran a search on "slang words for sperm" and Google coughed up 162,000 links over 56 pages. So, there is no shortage of alternatives.)

Shakespeare wrote:

"What's in a name? That which we call a rose

by any other name would smell as sweet."

That's all well and good. But I, for one, am thankful that a rose is a rose and not a hemorrhoid. A dozen long-stem hemorrhoids? I don't think so.

There's a weird irony to the word: "phlegm." An excess of consonants for an excess of mucus. I once had a bad head cold - it was mucus to my ears. In Belgium, they speak Flemish. Which begs the question: is hocking loogies their national pastime?

Back to sperm.  Say it again. Sperm. Warning: do not shout “sperm!” in a crowded movie theater. Just repeat it several times quietly to yourself in privacy: Sperm, sperm, sperm. (“Smegma” is another perfectly suited word, which is ironic given its anatomical proximity to “sperm,” but for obvious reasons this reference will remain brief and parenthetical. Let’s be frank, “sperm” is bad enough.)

I picked up one of my boys from school and he asked me, “Hey, Daddy – what’s a sperm?” I quickly offered to buy him an ice cream cone if he would agree to drop the current line of questioning.

Yes, sperm is a perfect word. But others are not quite right. Some words miss the mark entirely. 

The word “yacht” for example. (Origin: from the Dutch “jacht” meaning hunt) The pale and pathetic sound betrays the majesty of the object itself. True, the cockeyed spelling has a certain appeal, delivering an exotic aura of mystery. But the disappointing thud of the word spoken aloud is simply ridiculous. Would you lust after a 200-foot long ocean-going luxury vessel with a helipad if it was spelled…

“Yot?”

Of course not. On second thought, absolutely. 

And on a related subject, I have no interest in living inside of a yurt – regardless of the spelling. I would venture to guess that few of us have ever spent time both on a yacht and inside a yurt – and certainly not on the same vacation. Keep in mind that it would not at all be unusual to encounter a yak or a Yeti or a yogurt-eating Yogi when exiting a yurt – except of course, in Yakima. Or the Yukon. Or Yugoslavia.

Or Ypsilanti.

If you are ever asked how you get from “sperm” to “Ypsilanti,” please point them towards my blog.

You’re welcome.