by Thomas Davidson
Just when you thought it was safe to unlock your wrought-iron security door, and step outside with your six Rottweilers and flashbang canisters…this freakin’ story appears.
On January 10, 2014, ABC News reported: Family Discovers Sperm Bank Nightmare 21 Years After Daughter’s Birth.
Warning: This news item packs the wallop of a stun grenade—it may temporarily disorient your senses with its blinding flash of bizarreness.
News Flash: A Utah family discovered that a lab worker in a former fertility clinic in Salt Lake City substituted his own sperm in an artificial insemination. The nightmare was uncovered after DNA tests were performed. Their adult daughter’s real father is a convicted felon.
(Thomas Lippert – Onan the Barbarian?)
The lab worker, Thomas Lippert, 49, was unavailable for comment by phone. He made the celestial transfer and joined the angels in 1999, and heaven and hell are inaccessible for Verizon Wireless customers. At any rate, picture Saint Peter, heaven’s bouncer, handling Lippert’s onboarding process.
The Apostle checks his spiral notebook, says, “Killers, line one. Scam artists, including investment fraud and pyramid schemes, line two. Arsonists with anger management disorders, line three. Operating a motor vehicle while listening to Ted Nugent on the radio, line six. Line 10 for Indecent Exposers by Schools. Sundry stalkers and misguided nudists, line nine. And you, sir, you are…let’s see…Lip…Thomas Lippert.” Big sigh. “Oh for chrissake! Lippert, the moanin’ onanist. Crapologists like you are so hard to categorize. You belong in several lines simultaneously. No, wait, you peesashit. Get your bunnies in line 14—courtship disorder.”
“Oh, for Pete’s Sake!” Scowling, Lippert waves his hands in the air as if flipping pizza dough. “Courtship…what?”
“You heard me!” Fed up, Saint Peter kneecaps Lippert right in the groin. Rocks his do-da. Poetic justice. Then Pete casually flips a notebook page. His fingertip trails down Lippert’s résumé.
“Are…you…kidding me? You were a law professor at Southwest State College in Marshall, Minnesota. Until—are you shitting me?—you got popped for kidnapping an art student at Purdue. Let’s see, the U.S. district attorney said you attempted to brainwash her into falling in love with you. Among other tender inducements, she underwent electric-shock treatment, was confined in a black box, and forced to share a smelly mattress with you, but not have sex. Jeepers Creepers! Holy crap! Don’t…touch or breathe on me…you little skeezeball!”
According to reports, Professor Thomas R. Lippert kept a stack of baby photos at the clinic’s desk, which he showed off as babies he “helped” to conceive.
[This story is so utterly deranged, we need a 20 minute intermission. If you’re feeling woozy, eighteenth-century fainting couches are located inside the lobby at the rear of this article. Feel free to faint. Nurses are on standby.]
The Bible has around 1900 pages (according to Wikipedia, the online encyclopedia whose readers include God), and is chock-full of creeps, clowns, and crappy behavior. As exegetes here at All Things Crime know, the Book of Deuteronomy, the fifth book, precedes the recently discovered sixth book of the Bible, the Book of Neuteronomy, which illumines fertility-clinic mack-daddies. Here, the Whore of Babylon is mentioned 72 times; NBA Lothario Wilt Chamberlain 85 times; but…Professor Thomas R. Lippert is mentioned a whopping 99 times.
The Book of Neuteronomy has a very pro-neuter editorial slant, and foretells the Professor’s 49 years of wilderness wanderings, his eventual encampment at the fertility clinic, and finally ends with the exhortation, “Lippert, thou pimp-meister, keep the ****in’ thang in thy pants!”
Surely we can all agree that Professor Lippert was a self-centered louse. The mack-daddy of illegitimate fathers. The ultimate (dead) deadbeat dad. What ABC News and other timid outlets did not dare divulge are the most fascinating aspects of this case.
ITEM #1: Professor Lippert, hands down, was the most atypical bank robber of all time. Lippert was the first (and only) bank robber to rob a bank by making a deposit—okay, many deposits. His legacy in the history of banking is unmatched.
ITEM #2: That singular achievement is dwarfed by the fact that the late Law Professor has become, unwittingly, the new face of class warfare. From the grave, Lippert has peeled off the scab of purported equality in America. Class snobbery is the pus that has infected the body politic, causing a bacterial invasion of the socioeconomic bloodstream…which…uh…(oh, never mind; let’s move on to the next paragraph).
Last month, Lippert’s hidden diary was discovered inside an Oscar de la Renta shoebox in his attic. In it, he reveals his sweeping vision of class snobbery in America, tracing the historical roots of the snobocracy.
(brain burglar puts bad brain into Vlasic pickle jar)
On page 218, Lippert writes: “The turning point began in 1931 when Universal Pictures released the horror film, Frankenstein. America piddled its pants. The scene? Fritz, Doctor Heinrich Frankenstein’s “minimum wage” hunchback assistant, steals the wrong brain instead of the ‘desired normal one.” Soon the bad brain was squished into a clammy corpse. The creature, on an operating table, was raised high toward an opening at the top of the lab. Thunder. KaBoom! Crackle…zzzt zzzt…of electrical machines. And the pop-eyed doc declared, ‘It’s alive! It’s alive!'”
(healthcare providers for a homeless man)
On page 219, Lippert confesses: “As I sat in front of the TV, I suddenly realized that the world was split in half—good brains or bad brains, Fritz or Handsome Heinrich, the Frankenstein monster or George Clooney. I eventually got a job at a sperm bank. My role? I was the Fritz of the fertility clinic. I would subvert snobbery.”
(grave robbing – back when medical research had vision, and balls)
On page 10,856: “Widespread fear of bad brains is second only to widespread fear of nuclear war. Director James Whale’s movie sent a shiver through the collective unconsciousness of moviegoers. Bad brains. Beware of implanted, criminal brains. Beware of brainless grave robbers who will grab any brain in sight.”
FAST FORWARD 83 YEARS.
Sperm banks, 2014 America. Get on the internet, go to www.googlemaps.com. Type in (sperm bank near you). Hit street view. Arrow over to the parking lot. Zoom in. See the bumper stickers on the parked cars? “Honk if you’re a Yalie.” “Handsome Harvard graduate on board.” Or: “Rich, Hot—I’m $tudtastic.”
I live near Cambridge, Massachusetts. I Googled this: “sperm bank donors.” My search included this result: Sperm Donor in Cambridge. Here are the screening guidelines.
– At least 5’9” tall
– Between 19 and 38 years old
– Sexual partners are exclusively female
– Currently attending a four-year university, or, already hold a bachelors or advanced degree
– Are in good health
– Legally allowed to work in the US
If Fritz the body-snatcher were still alive, would he be snubbed by this posting? Or would he apply? He could park in the visitor’s lot with his bumper sticker, “Brain burglar on board.” What if Fritz worked at a sperm bank, and got his friend, the Frankenstein monster, a janitor’s job there? What if, eighteen years later, high school yearbooks across America, thousands of yearbooks, each had at least a half dozen of these photos.
[Pictured to the left, graduates from Eastside Detroit High School, Class of 2032: Frank N. Smith, Frank N. Jones, Frank N. Foley, Frank N. Lovejoy, Frank N. O’Brien, Frank N. Kowalski.]
Could these six men be related? Look closely. Is there something fishy here?
What if the “Brad Pitt look” became passé, and the Frankenstein monster became the new hottie? If so, imagine an America with this sperm bank ad:
– At least 6’8” tall
– Between 18 and 300 years old
– Sexual partners are exclusively reanimated corpses
– Currently attending night school at Castle Frankenstein, earning a degree in creative anatomy
– Are in good health, with functional neck electrodes
– Legally allowed to wander (and occasionally rampage) across the US
Well, we’ll have to wait and see how this story evolves. Who knows what’s really happening inside sperm banks. I called a local clinic for an inside scoop, but the fellow at the front desk, Mr. Stein, was uncommunicative.
(Frank N. Stein, front desk officer, Cambridge Sperm Bank)
“Hi, my name is Tom. I’m writing a…”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Be that as it may, what really goes on inside your clinic? In a nutshell, how would…”
He was not very forthcoming about the business. I hung up, feeling suspicious. That night I drove, in a thunderstorm, over to the sperm bank to get a closer look. The clinic had a unique design.
(Cambridge Sperm Bank near Harvard University)
There was a drive-through window on the East wall, near the dungeon, similar to McDonald’s. Inside, a woman wearing a paper hat asked, “May I help you?”
At last, a store that offered physical perfection. In the future, no one will have to go to the smelly gym. With the right genetic recipe, immortality awaits.
I said, “Gimme a hottie Nobel Laureate to go, Johnny Depp face, Michael Jordan ball skills, dances like Fred Astaire, with a side order of advanced degrees from Princeton.”
She turned to someone in the back room. “Yo, Frankie, you got that?”
I gazed through my windshield at the tall walls, the battlements—Cambridge Sperm Bank resembled Castle Frankenstein. For a moment, I had an uneasy feeling that something creepy was afoot across America, an expanding weirdness from sea to shining sea. I imagined millions of Frankenstein monsters shambling across the landscape, an army of reanimated dead sweeping the country. My heart quickened.
Until Frankie snapped my paranoia. No worries. From the back room, he grunted in a soothing tone, “Mmmmnnnnhhh.”
Thomas Davidson is the author of two quirky thrillers, THE MUSEUM OF SUDDEN DISAPPEARANCES and PAST IS PRESENT, and a new collection of humor, BOTCH CASSIDY & THE SUNDUNCE KID. He robs graves in the Boston area. Click below for his recent posts for ALL THINGS CRIME BLOG.
website — www.thomas-davidson.com
blog — www.jurassicjim.blogspot.com
twitter litter — @TomDavidson99
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