Fetus Replacement IQ Booster
At the Institute for the Development of Organic Motherhood, a new method of an IQ “intervention boost” was discovered, which could be used already during the gestation period. IQ boosting was achieved through a fetal replacement process where the embryos from two carefully selected mothers were to be switched from one to another. Such a drastic change in the external conditions, (especially in different habits of substance use and abuse by the carriers) was expected to have a very stimulating effect on young organisms and lead to the development in the moment of their birth of a prime basis for an IQ level higher by 50%.
Despite strong opposition from organizations dedicated to the protection of developmental sanctity of unborn children, from groups devoted to the protection of family traditions, and from task forces committed to the preservation of racial purity, the new method (license purchased by the pharmaceutical giant Robots Healthcare) began to gain tremendous popularity, especially since it was introduced onto the market in conjunction with an attractive credit plan, offered by HSBBC. For the treatment and all follow up care, one could pay in easy month-and-half installments spread over 25 to 45 years.
The number of performed procedures grew at a never-before seen pace, and a trend for an IQ higher than 180 lasted several years.
Children of the “fetus replacement” generation were popping out like bunnies in the spring.
They obtained skills, knowledge, awards, academic titles and scientific degrees. With honor and distinction they represented our country in the international arena (especially in the field of fractal genetic engineering) and were the pride and joy of the whole society. Then the demand suddenly decreased, and it wasn’t because of the actions of anti-fetus replacement organizations.
Parents realized there was no one left to take out the trash.
Kefir on a Very Bad Day
Waldemar Szary, a food technician at the OSM “Paziocha”, was having a very bad day - the kind of a very bad day, which normally comes after one of those very good days. A day, when nothing works, and when life kicks you in the ass harder than your friends at work. A day when you remember your innocent childhood and would like to return to those times, when there were no very bad days coming after very good days. A day, when you look in the mirror and realize that you’re not sure you know the person staring impudently back at you with blood-shot eyes. A day, when you’d seriously consider separating your mind from your body. Separating, at least until when the body stops causing you grief.
In other words, Waldemar Szary had a massive hangover.
And when he had a hangover everything was always falling from his hands, which in his case could have serious repercussions. That’s why the chief food technician in the leading dairy cooperative in the country was reclining behind a giant mixing vat and desperately wanted to forget about the negative stimuli on his nerve cells caused by the 83 kilograms of his body.
“Szary to the manager!” The sore specialist for new flavor development heard as if through a heavy acoustic fog.
“Szary, you will make me a new product. Gotta be new and winning, not like those earlier super sweet yogurts, total crap. A French sourmilky delegation is arriving today, and I need to have something in an hour. Now get to work, time is running out. And it’s your time, not mine,” the production manager was half-shouting, which was typical of him during very bad days coming after very good days.
The last very good day for both of them was spent at Miss Elwira’s, the accountant, name day party. Every year she was throwing a party and everybody would always come, because if they didn’t, she’d forget to transfer salaries to their bank accounts. So both the manager and the technician got drunk on the same vodka, from the same bottle even, in each other’s arms, about which they didn’t want to be reminded.
“New product, new product in one hour… last time I had three,” Szary complained and with certain difficulty opened the ingredient storage cabinet. A week ago he received a shipment of new flavors from the French Colonies. A row of shining new cans tempted him with labels and optimism: fruit a la mango, exotic fruit with bacon, fruity mushroom, vegetable-carrot cellulose, natural flavor of home made yogurt, eccentric raspberry flavored orange and many others.
Time was running out and Szary slowly began to work, knowing that the last 45 minutes he had to spend on testing the new flavor, an activity which always ended up in the bathroom. He was convinced that the manager gave him this task today simply to make his life totally miserable after the shindig at Elwira’s. But what could he do? Into a small vat he poured with a shaking hand some fresh yogurt from two weeks ago. For his experiments, he used exclusively this yogurt, it didn’t provoke any unexpected gastric sensations like the natural ones, without those stabilizing E-numbers (E298, E301, E980). He poured some more, because he had spilled before, and now he spilled again, and then he had enough and went behind the mixing vat to recline for a while and forget about his 83 kilograms.
He was stirred to life by the drone of the secretary’s voice:
“Szary to the manager!”
The technician, wanting to escape into tomorrow, regained consciousness and jumped on his feet, which were not all that stable. He flung himself from the cabinet to the equipment table. He poured some kefir into himself, and then by mistake into the vat. He was shaking as he frantically opened cans with flavors, he knew he had two minutes, because then, the whole company would hear through the speakers:
“Szary on the carpet to the CEO!”
He added one flavor and mixed it in, and then another, but he spilled it. He didn’t check the label on the third one, but added it, too. From experience, he knew that the less defined the flavor, the better the manager liked it.
“Maybe it’s not such a bad idea with this kefir. The manager has a hangover, too,” he briefly thought when he was pouring in additional ingredients.
He added more kefir and home-made kefir flavor, but not too much, because his hands were shaking, then he still had to mix it and add a few E-numbers. That went quick, he already had a tried and true mix of additives, preservatives, and stabilizers ready, which had always worked just fine.
“Szary on the carpet to the CEO!”
And the technician from the OSM “Paziocha” ran to the office, where the production manager was already waiting for him.
He took a deep breath:
“Kefir with a multi-fruit and multi-vegetable yogurt flavor,” he said with gloomy enthusiasm and leaned against the wall awaiting the “if looks could kill” firing squad.
“Gimme a spoon,” the CEO said, and like a true connoisseur began to sniff the mixture first. Then he tried it and asked the manager to do the same.
“So,” he said after a while, which in most cases meant it was OK.
“Yeah, you did good this time, Szary. This is good, right?” The manager half-whispered to the CEO, as he always did on his very bad days.
“So, yeah. I like. And the Frenchies will too. And when are they coming, those frat-eaters?”
“Oh yes, only the day after after after tomorrow, and maybe even after,” the manager replied and began to eat quickly to change the subject, “hmm… good, those multi-flavor ones.”
“Good. Now we gotta make some yogurt with a natural kefir flavor with pieces of fresh fruit, you know, those from that delivery from three years back, that’s been sitting all this time, because it was too sweet,” the CEO announced and Szary now knew for sure that the day would only be one of those very bad ones. As opposed to very, very, very bad.
Nose Number 32
Jolanta Moczydlowska, a former model in second-and-a-half rate fashion shows, unfulfilled MTV presenter and three times married of convenience fulfilled wife, didn’t like her nose. Sometimes it was too small, and sometimes too big, and sometimes not in the right place. Everything depended on the time of day, mood, and the number of mirrors in her line of sight.
It was an early late morning. In a beautiful villa of her fourth husband, the sun was peeking cheerfully into Jolanta’s bedroom, who whether she liked it or not, had to get up, because one, she didn’t like to sleep with the sun shining on her face (could cause zits), and two, because she had a facial appointment (so there wouldn’t be any zits). She took half an hour (which means an hour and a half) to get up, ate light breakfast and realized that today she wasn’t going to like the shape of her left nostril.
“Another wasted day,” the ex-model said to her reflection in a huge tv screen and switched the channel to a women’s talk-show:
“A new revolutionary, plastic surgery method has been developed, allowing for performing surgeries on one particular body part practically an infinite number of times. What’s more, the time between the procedures can be reduced to just three days, which for busy, modern women is certainly good news.”
The program continued with an interview with Dr la Berg from Switzerland, who opened the first clinic in the world, where this new revolutionary method named after him was being performed. The method was based on applying onto the wound a synthetically generated alpine calf’s fat tissue and covering the scar with multi-polymeric plasma, which facilitated the healing so rapidly it was noticeable to a naked eye.
Jolanta quickly dialed her husband’s number:
“Love, would you like me to be your Kassandra Lubbock?”
The future Kassandra flew to the La Berg Clinique two days later, but came back after a week, because she also had some minor shopping to do.
“And… what do you think?”
“Oh, my Kassandra,” the Fourth Husband said without paying attention. He was a respected lawyer defending discredited politicians, and as such he was very busy and didn’t normally pay attention to small, insignificant things.
“Not Kassandra, but Damonna, that singer. I changed my mind, and you should notice, you spent 150 thousand dollars on it.”
“Oh yes, that singer.”
To improve her mood, Jolanta flew back to Switzerland for another surgery.
“And now?”
“Wonderful, beautiful! Just don’t ask me, this beauty who has the most gorgeous nose on the planet, you know, that…” the Fourth Husband pretended he was trying to remember the name.
“The princess of Macaonaco!” Jolanta shouted, and for the next three days she felt as wonderful as the princess with the most beautiful nose in the world.
The wonderful feeling ended at a ladies’ gathering at a fitness club, where all her friends talked about the prominent nose (a la Depardieu) of Pawelec’s new wife, and Jolanta’s dainty nose wasn’t even noticed at all.
Again another flight to Switzerland. This time she was much better prepared. In foreign magazines she had read that snub prominent noses (but not as masculine anymore) would be in fashion this season, and that the wife of the president of Rumumbia ordered herself from the La Berg catalog, a nose listed as La Berg Shilouette 14.
“Awesome! You got a nose!” Her friends from Caf� Cuiudad admired her new acquisition, and Sylvia added: “I want one like that, too.”
They went together, Sylvia to get the La Berg Shilouette 14, and Jolanta to keep her company.
“And, what do you think now?” She asked the Fourth Husband after coming back from the clinic. “It’s a new model, La Berg Paco Rabanne.”
“Exquisite, as always, but could you please do me a favor and slow down for a bit with those nose things, because a new Orshe model just came out.”
This upset Jolanta enough to ask her Third Husband, who still loved her, to pay for a monthly stay at La Berg. And he did, and Jolanta changed noses every two days, because she couldn’t make up her mind. And each time she sent photos to her friends to get their opinion. Many were giving their opinions, and there were so many opinions and suggestions that Jolanta got depressed. In the end, doctor La Berg told her himself that the nose number 32 was the best.
Somewhat recovered emotionally, she came back hoping that her four-week-long effort would be appreciated by someone. The Fourth Husband said nothing of course, until the beautifully shaped nose with a fantastic set of sculpted nostrils, fell off her face and landed on the floor.
“OK, problem solved,” the husband announced, and then added, “if you want to sit in the Orshe for a while, here are the keys.”