hree masked bandits made off with the largest-ever collection of stolen sperm samples in a daring daylight heist of the McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm in New York this week, amusing authorities and frightening one McCullough patron into premature donation.

Authorities believe they are dealing with extremely low-grade, and possibly mentally deficient, criminals, all likely the results of McCullough sperm in the first place. Common sense and eyewitness accounts point to the robbers mistaking the sperm bank for the usual money-filled kind, lured by the facility’s lax security and complete lack of the imposing 87-year-old security guards usually employed by banks in the movies. Even worse, the apparently dipshitted bandits also robbed the least desirable sperm bank in town, as McCullough has traditionally been a discount repository for the genetic material of over 5,000 winos, junkies, teenage heart-attack victims, the criminally obese and conservatives for the last 20 years.

“Yeah, this looks to be the work of some real gonads,� evaluated police captain Walter Diggs. “One of them even dropped his wallet at the scene, but since it was just full of coupons and a novelty driver’s license made out to Jesus H. Christ, this has been of little assistance in our investigation.�

The McCullough Bank of Low-Grade Sperm, known in the reproductive-assistance community as “The Island of Misfit Spank,� was created by wealthy thinker Nelson McCulloch in 1982 to counterbalance to the offensively Nazistic eugenics movement. McCullough hoped to counter the societal effects of eugenic tycoon Robert Graham’s Repository for Germinal Choice, also known as the Nobel Prize Sperm Bank, which aimed at improving society by giving more women access to high-grade spunk. The McCullough Bank went in the other direction, extending the reproductive power and reach of the very individuals who natural selection, and surely at least the Nazis, would likely have wiped out.

Authorities speculate that after McCullough’s long and proud history of creating the ugly, the short, the slothful and disinterested, the weak, the gene-poor, the flat-chested and the unlovable, the bank’s chickens may have come home to roost in the form of deficient McCullough alumni making off with millions of their potential siblings in a beige 1987 Chevy Nova with a “Big Johnson� bumper sticker.

Reproductive-assistance experts remain terrified at the thought of how the sperm samples might be used in the wrong hands, possibly as sandwich spread.

“I just wouldn’t want to be in that car when the skeet packet goes off,� chucked McCullough head Nigel Barmes, referring to the explosive packet of hot-pink dyed sperm that tellers mix in with stolen samples to foil robbers.

The McCullough incident marks the first occurrence of sperm bank violence in this country since 1991, when militant pro-choice activists blew up the Washington, D.C. Gentleben Sperm Repository in retaliation for several abortion clinic bombings nationwide.

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Dear Commune:

You have my phone number. You, the commune. You need to call the phone company and straighten this out. I've had the same phone number for 42 years and I'm NOT about to give it up. Thank you.

Agnes Knutson
Bromade, NJ


Dear Agnes:

We here at the commune are very sorry to hear that your life has become interesting in a way that makes you mildly uncomfortable. Obviously, we'll call the phone company right away and make sure they restore to you the number you've earned by staying in the same miserable place for your entire life. Pssssh! Right! You can stuff it up your ass with the nice old lady act, lady. We here at the commune pay our bills, biiiiatch, and if you see fit to bring your mess all up in our shit again you will be introduced to some mad hurtin'. Damn. Also, tell your withered old biddy friends to stop calling here, they keep kicking us off the Internet.

the commune

---

Editor's Note: the commune is not responsible for anything we got your kids to eat. Lengthy precedent has established that U.S. courts consider a triple dog dare to be legally binding.

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All right, listen up, we haven't got all day here. This is some important stuff, so pay attention. Being the philosophical sort of sonofabitch that I am, a lot of folks have asked me over the years, "Reed, what's the meaning of life?" and many other stupid and useless philosophical questions. Usually I just tell them all to go piss up a rope, but today I'm feeling magnanimous, so I'm going to answer a few of those questions for you, the inquisitive reader.

One of the questions I've heard over the course of my many years on the planet is this one: "If a tree falls in the forest, and there is no one around to hear it, does it make a noise?"

Okay, first off, let me say that I believe that may be one of the all-time stupidest questions anyone has ever asked. Why it keeps getting asked is beyond me. But, as I said, I'm here today to give you some answers, so let's go to town on this one. Of course it makes a noise. The bigger the tree, the bigger the noise it makes. Have you ever seen a tree fall in the forest, even on TV or in the movies? It makes a big old sound, doesn't it? Crash! Bam! Loud, you know what I'm saying? Just imagine, all that timber hitting the ground, the branches crashing through the undergrowth, scaring hell out of all the animals, the dust billowing up and leaves and splinters flying every which way. Trust me, it makes a sound, all right. I don't want to have to tell you yahoos again. Okay, next question.

Another one I've heard a lot is this ridiculous query: "What is the sound of one hand clapping?"

They don't get much easier than that, do they? I'll tell you what, unless your face or your ass cheek happens to be in the path of that one hand, the sound of one hand clapping is exactly nothing. Silence. You ever see a one-armed man try to clap? He waves his hand sideways in the air in front of him, and it's just pathetic. The only sound you could possibly get out of that is the whooshing of the air around him, and that hardly makes any noise at all. I don't know why anyone ever worried about such a dumb idea anyway.

Okay, let's sum up what we've learned so far: If a tree falls, there's noise. One hand clapping, no noise. Are you keeping up with me here? This isn't rocket surgery, people.

Now this last one may seem a little bit trickier to some of you out there, but really it's just as simple as the others. Remember how I said at the beginning of the column that people were always asking me, "Reed, what's the meaning of life?" If you don't remember, I want you to go back and read the first paragraph again. Go on, I'll wait.

All right now, are we all on the same page? Good. Let's get right down to it, then. What is the meaning of life? Think about this in your tiny brains for one second, will you? What is it that keeps this world spinning, that drives people everywhere, that fuels our desires, our needs and our wants, and is responsible for virtually every major world event, good and bad, since time immemorial? That's right, booze and pussy. Booze and pussy! How much simpler could it be? I'm telling you people, the easy answers are always the best.

So there you have it. The answers to some of the most overblown, overhyped philosophical questions of man's existence, just like that. In a nutshell, what I'm saying is noise, no noise, booze and pussy. Simple as that. Now get out of here and become one with everything before I enlighten your ass with my foot.

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