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Sperm Banks Projected To Weather Particularly Rough ‘No Nut November’ This Year

As the country hopes to narrowly blue ball it’s way out of a climactic state violence and stochastic violence orgy, one Jersey strip mall finds itself deluged in too much climax. For the past three winters, Chau’s Cryobank has enjoyed slow idyllic business thanks to the erect, meteoric rise in No Nut November’s notoriety.

But like many things this year, that tranquility was railroaded by a curved, perverse, horrific aberration. More accurately, lots of perverse, curved, and horrific aberrations. Much to fertility doctor Laurence Chau’s chagrin, the COVID-19 pandemic has amplified his monthly business sevenfold.

“I’ve never seen anything like it. Lines halfway down the lot. Mountains of donor screening paperwork. Coolers packed to the brim with socks, mason jars, fucking milk cartons of the stuff.”

When I spoke to Dr. Chau, he blamed the unexpected overwhelm on two expected variables: economic hemorrhaging and impotent isolation horniness.

“That graduating community college transfer won’t wanna ruminate on that 22-year dry spell becoming 23 years. Your resident incel will scrap NoFap if it means saving up for that .22 come spring marking period. Some unemployed divorcee could whiff their ex’s perfume off that pillow and get, as my Generation-Z nephew says, ‘kinda freaky wit it’.”

But whilst he empathized with his clientele’s motivations, Chau cautioned future donors against perpetuating the industry’s burgeoning, swelling hyperinflation.

“Jamba Jizm? Coomy Changa? Benny’s Baby Batter? They make our business look like the Fuddruckers three units down. But if these projected estimates stay the course, we won’t be looking like the wholesome 2013 Vince Vaughn comedy Delivery Man. We’ll be looking like some 2009 Willem Dafoe Antichrist blood nut slurry. A 1981 Cronenbergian explosion of a different head. The 1980 Overlook hotel doors opened agape, soaking the halls white with the embryonic cells of tyrants, and the accursed souls damned to their subjugation!”

I couldn’t intelligibly transcribe all of Dr. Chau’s phallic movie references and naked fugue delirium. Nevertheless, the resounding consensus from him and other industry experts was clear: expect hard times to hit a rock hard fever pitch.

“I’m not sure why I still toss lambs into the slaughterhouse. I’m not sure any sort of just higher power governs this garish nightmare. But by God, I don’t even want to fathom what Destroy Dick December has in store.”