My Life as a Sperm

One Man’s Quest to Save the World

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 gets a second chance to fix things back on Earth. 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.


Reviews to Date


“Whitaker takes a playful, tongue-in-cheek approach to topics that are usually only discussed seriously, and he does so effortlessly.” – LAS Reviewer

“A funny, funny book – well written and highly entertaining.” – LOGAN’S LIBRARY

“The book is full of humorous characters and situations that guarantee you will have to put this book down once in a while just to catch your breath from laughing.” – (Amazon Reviewer)

“Whitaker has presented us with a book which encompasses wit that is nonetheless thought-provoking.” – The Kindle Book Review

“Excellent dialogue, memorable characters, funny, smart book.” – (Amazon Reviewer)


– Excerpts from My Life as a Sperm


On top of Hedgins’ glass desktop, skinny, white legs belonging to CFO 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.


With a red Matchbox car in hand, he proceeded to run it along the arm and up the back of the sofa, adding that strange noise for special effect. He disappeared behind me, I felt the slightest flick of my bristled hair as he passed the car over my head, and then 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, and then hoovered the rest inside.


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