Nearly two weeks ago (on Robert's birthday, as it turns out), my neighbor Cornelia gave birth to her second son, Davis. This latest arrival is the seventh child to be conceived in my apartment building over the past six years, and all of them have been boys. That's right. Seven for seven, which has a raw statistical probability of 0.78%.
Clearly there is some otherworldly, mystical mojo at play here. Something in the water, or the heating system, or the fetid labyrinth of our basement is invigorating our Y-gametes.
The upshot: If you're reading this from some part of the world that devalues feminine offspring, or you're an heirless English baron looking to unload your crumbling manse, we should talk about bringing your lady friend over for a night of belly-bumpin' at the Laid-Off Lair.
(Not with us, though. Sheesh.) *see below
I have to warn you that, given the rarity of this offer (and my general distaste for gender bias), this night will cost you an arm and a leg, plus another arm. Though if you're willing to do some laundry for us, I could knock off a few bucks.
[EDITED TO ADD: The problem with having your wife reading over your shoulder is the unfortunate need to edit your more prurient sexual thoughts. Anyone who wants to swap apartments and wives must submit to a rigorous screening program (i.e., visual proof of hotness).
There is also the sticky issue of whether you want to use Laid-Off Seed to fertilize your scion. Prevailing wisdom is that this is not possible, but if your proposal is really indecent--like, buy-me-a-pimped-out mini-mansion indecent--I'll see what I can do.]