Down in Stork Alley, the babies come fast and furious. The uteri barely
have a chance to shrink back into place before being filled up again.
Hardly a uterus grows cold in the Llanuras De Las Bebés. That's life out
on the Baby Plains.

Babies plain on the rug. Morningbabies babbling in the cribs,
crackling static in the monitors — babies calling from the ionosphere,
stork babies with throat mikes and goggles and Mae Wests bouncing signals
off the ionosphere. It's said that on a clear night with little
atmospheric disturbance, you can tune your baby monitor and hear the
babble of all your future babies.

 

Storks carry babies folded away, like rubber boats. When the
specific house looms, the stork pulls a tab, and the baby inflates in
0.68 seconds. Bundled in an amniotic chute, it's then sailed through the
nearest window. "My water broke" is euphemistic code for "That stork just
bullseyed my vagina with our new child."

 

Baby parachuters from the Stork squadrons. Black storks with Nazi
swastikas shooting birth control pills. There goes Stork 36 in bright
orange flame — a slow wingover, smoke spiraling down into the suburban
hills. One...two...three...four chutes! All the babies got out okay!
There'll be some surprises in the outer 'burbs this morning!

 

Stork squadrons against the stars. Barrage balloons made of
vulcanized uteruses. Watch out for the cables! They sway over certain
swinging neighborhoods full of hysterectomies, neighborhoods from the
70's, with key parties and the like.

 

Civic committees haul them down and patch them periodically. Air
raid wardens in corrugated steel towers blow steel whistles at the
approach of the Storks, and every woman of childbearing age hustles down
into the corrugated steel shelters. Down there they wife-swap and
swing, baby.