I co-wrote My Life as a Sperm with an exceptionally talented writer by the name of Darrah Whitaker (http://www.wdarrawhitaker.com). Well, he did most of the work – okay, all the work, but I inspired him and it’s my story. And it’s a story that needs to be told.
In addition to writing, Darrah is available for anything from public appearances to private pagan ceremonies. [CORRECTION: WDW has informed me that he will only attend public pagan ceremonies]. Ignore him. We can still talk. I need to make my commission.
Back to the point. My Life as a Sperm is available now. Click on Order Your Copy. And, please, get on the mailing list for future announcements.
Below is a short synopsis and excerpts from my book, My Life as a Sperm:
Hollywood agent Buddy Price dies in a car crash and finds himself in Heaven. There, he discovers God’s had enough with people and will pull the plug if we can’t learn to get along – a ‘love thy neighbor or else’ sort of message. An unlikely hero as there ever was, Buddy convinces God to let him fix things and gets a second chance. From the first few lines of the book, we know that he’s probably the last person we’d want to depend on to save the world, but God’s got his plan. Our fate rests in Buddy’s hands… or, who knows, maybe he’s just crazy and needs lithium or something..
– Excerpts from My Life as a Sperm
On top of Hedgins’ glass desktop, skinny, white legs belonging to CFO Francis Manor wishboned like a V for victory (or vagina, I suppose) toward the ceiling while Reverend Hedgins, with pants around the ankles, pounded away at her lady bits. Hedgins didn’t see me, his backside conveniently pointed in my direction, and, if their position had been reversed, he still wouldn’t have noticed since his head was kicked up as if looking for an attaboy from on high. CFO Manor let loose with a couple of ‘Thank you, Jesuses’ before she caught sight of me standing in the office doorway.
At the shallow end of the pool, three attractive women dangled their feet in the water. I deduced quickly enough that they must be the talent because of their distinct lack of clothing. Also, I couldn’t help but notice that they were built for the business. Their breasts defied gravity, matching the best of a David Copperfield levitation act, and one had lips so full of collagen that she could suction nicely to a plate-glass window. I guess that’s the price of admission to the Big Time.
The wind blew hot and sharp like a slap across the face. Supplies crowded the forward part of the truck bed, some partially hidden under a light blue tarp that displayed a bright orange checkerboard design. Oscar and I, along with the guy with the huge beer gut, rode in what space was left in back. Our semi-diligent host munched on his bag of pretzels and sipped a beer as he eyed us, but mostly he kept his head held up and into the wind as dogs tend to do when riding in cars. A shotgun lay across his lap, his other hand resting on top.
He held a small red Matchbox car in his hand with which he proceeded to run along the arm and up the back of the sofa, adding that strange growling noise for special effect. He disappeared behind me and I felt the slightest flick of my bristly hair as he passed the car over my head. He reappeared by the sofa arm on my side. A chartreuse booger fell halfway from one of his nostrils.
“You got a little thing there, kid.” I wiggled my finger under my nose.
He squinted, no doubt wondering what evil trick this stranger was trying to pull on him. He sniffed and drew his hand across his face, snagging part of the offending snot. He hoovered the rest inside.