Celebrity, baby.

My slow day at work produced a fine bantering session on the riff of sleeping with celebrities. This got me thinking. Surely, surely, surely there must be a market for celebrity sperm. Of course the Nobel sperm bank was destined to fail because no matter how many pop scientists there are, science will never be pop. China is onto the idea. But what about the country that exists to entertain the world? What about egos resilient enough to defy death, yawning silicon valleys between breasts, Scientology and celebrity sluts? What about Hollywood?

So. You're Bratt Pitt or Tom Snooze's Biggest Fan. You obsess over film minutiae, boil over with pleasure during a solid Fight Club evening - and one night, you get to sleep with your idol as a fully fledged groupie. It's the crowning moment of your life - a real and quite personal interaction with celebrity. You'll never work again. You'll never wash again. And if you're smart, you'll preserve the very precious cargo bestowed in you as a groupie. You'll skip the awkward morning after where you shrink back into your skin. Instead, you'd jump in your car and drive like the clappers to a clinic, where your precious cargo can be salvaged. You pay a curious scientist to freeze it and set up the biggest Ebay auction the world has ever seen. Bear Bratt's child? Who wouldn't? The gossip mags become feverishly interested and begin bidding anonymously to drive up the price. Ebay pulls the auction. The interest barely falters and the phone calls begin. You sell off the first .25 of a gram of Bratt and buy Kafzakistan. A new gossip mag is founded to deal with the issue. Nine months of public pregnancy follow. Bratt unleashes a legion of lawyers. A child is born. A child dies from the glare of a thousand flashes. You devise a mobile HQ and partner up with Osama Bin Laden. 99 virgins are recruited from heaven for more pressing work. A clone army builds inside Pakistani caves. The US bombs Iran out of pique more than anything else. You invade America with a Bratt pack army. Citizens run about and blame their former slaves. Loyalties are rent asunder and a somewhat less than civil war erupts. The North wins and the South broods. The country enters a second segregation era between celebrities and normals. You nurse your spare hundred million sperm and plot darkly.