Showing posts with label sperm. Show all posts
Showing posts with label sperm. Show all posts

Thursday, 16 October 2025

I’ll have that boy

No face in this race

From the moment I saw the byline in an email message, I had a feeling something was not quite right with the proposal. In fact, everything seemed wrong about it, but at the very least, I needed to humour them by sincerely reading the story before commenting.

The teen founder turning male fertility into a sport

The Hustle - Jay Fuchs

At the questionable border of sports entertainment and male fertility is Sperm Racing, a startup that recently closed a $10m seed round.

As the propinquity of perspicacity and perspective grants permission, the author of the piece in The Hustle, which is the sales blog of Hubspot, not to be confused with Hustler Magazine, could not have had a more unfortunate name, if pronounced in a certain way, in his role as the managing editor, Jay Fuchs.

Moving on, Eric Zhu is the 18-year-old entrepreneur and founder of Sperm Racing, an outfit set up to address the issue of seemingly declining male fertility in a rather novel way, while promoting a dialogue on the matter too, and everything you think it is, is probably all it is and more, from the name of the company.

The straight-faced debate

To determine the best swimmers on a microscopic racetrack with high-resolution cameras capturing the event, think of the desert camel races of the UAE with robot jockeys, but the sperm will run under their own steam.

Apparently, the viewership of these race events is in the high six-figure range, and the venture has closed a $10m seed round.

This almost Onanist leap from mobility to motility suggests many questions difficult to articulate, but I can see an end in sight, with a visit to a sperm bank or considering a competition between these depositories of human propagation for an open race to all comers.

Equipment set up for the race to save manhood and humanity, Guinness World Records adjudicators ensuring no underhand tactics, spectators jockeying for position, urging their colours forward, until one breasts the tape and she says, “I’ll have that boy.”

One artificial insemination later, if the winner has not been stripped of all dignity to learn of their secret of triumph, a stud farm, humans, horses, bulls, and chickens, and the business of reproduction becomes the survival of the fittest sperm, with happy endings following even more happy endings.

In the ideas market, let’s just agree, more is to come.

See Also

ABC 7 News: Bay Area student organises 1st-of-its-kind sperm race to raise men's health awareness

Saturday, 3 April 2010

A message to my children yet unborn

They want for what I don’t
For some people it is probably very bad news, in my case, it might just keep me out of trouble.
Each time I talk to my loved ones there is this expectancy for procreation, the need to carry the family name forward which fortunately is being sired with excellence by my brother without any quibbles from me.
Somehow, there are people who think my happiness would be so fulfilled when I become a father or in other cases I have to daintily sidestep the clamour for “regular” relationships which some people just think would work out because they are supposed to.
A life without a wife
My recent illness has made it all the more a bugbear, how wonderful it would have been to have a wife said he for times when one cannot help oneself – well, how wonderful indeed but that just does not happen to be my life.
To have a prospect of marriage to any selected person depicted as a necessary evil just makes one revolt against the evil and attack the need to have any evil necessary in ones life.
Suddenly, one has some information to put paid to this matter, maybe my specialist really should have discussed this with me before recommending the treatment I received but at the time the most important thing for me was getting well not getting hitched.
At 44, surely if that was something I was so interested in, I would definitely have done it just as I do not see my not being able to drive the most enfeebling handicap to have befallen my most fortunate soul.
Chemotherapy stops multiplication
So, having decided not to conform to the norm by living a life too painful for my comfort and debilitating for the person who is made to suffer the partnership for the sake of pleasing others, this piece of news is so welcome that it might well buy me some peace on the subject other people cannot seem to leave alone.
It is really the last bit of stress I need on my mind, apparently, the course of chemotherapy I had does radically impair fertility and there is a possibility that I may not be able to sire children.
No, I do not cry, neither do I jump in elation but I will not start running round clinics looking for signs of extraterrestrial life in my sperm and committing another person’s life to the anxiety of a rapidly ticking biological clock.
To Mini-me
The message to my children yet unborn is do not queue up in my docket for your visa into earth, the border control office does not exist and no plans are being made to create one for that purpose.
The fact is, I do not want children, I do not need children and basically the knowledge that I may not be able to produce children might just put paid to all the influences and inferences that endlessly bother me.
If I did have a garden like this seasonal time offers, I know the cup from which I would drink to stay in the life in which I have so become accustomed and love.