The New York Times on the travails of single spawners:
At long last, after something like 100 dates in the past 10 years and several serious relationships, she had found the man she refers to, tongue only slightly in cheek, as “the one.” It all began last summer, when she broke off a relationship with a younger man who wasn’t ready for children and got serious about the idea of conceiving on her own. She gathered information about fertility doctors and sperm banks. “Then a childhood friend of mine was over,” she told me. “I pulled up the Web site of the only sperm bank that I know of that has adult photos. There happened to be one Jewish person. I pulled up the photo, and I looked at my friend, and I looked at his picture, and I said, ‘Oh, my God.’ I can’t say love at first sight, because, you know. But he was the one.”
…. She told her parents and married sister what was going on, e-mailing the donor’s picture to her father with an invitation that he meet his son-in-law. She also printed the donor’s picture and kept it on the coffee table of her Manhattan studio apartment, where she sleeps in a Murphy bed. “I kind of glance at it as I pass,” she said of the picture. “It’s almost like when you date someone, and you keep looking at them, and you’re, like, Are they cute? But every time I pass, I’m, like, Oh, he’s really cute. It’s a comforting feeling.”
And thus we are quickly given to understand why no one wanted to marry this freak. But while it’s always fun to read about strong, independent and utterly insane women, I find it more intriguing to note that elsewhere on the same New York Times front page is a story about how hard black men have it, in part because absent fathers contribute so greatly to social pathology in the black community.
Combine that pathology with the 21 children engendered by the blond Aryan uberdonor and the pattern becomes all too clear. There are obviously some nefarious plans lurking beneath the helpful facade of your local neighborhood fertility clinic.