A guy came to me last month suspecting his wife of cheating. He wanted to find out for sure though. If she is, he plans to file for divorce on the grounds of adultery. I promised to do all I can to help – no easy task when dealing with the intellectually challenged.
When he first met with me, I informed “Ralph” about cutting edge DNA testing. A company I know of will extract a semen specimen from a woman’s underwear and determine whether the DNA matches the male customer’s or belongs to a different man. As I told Ralph: “If you can get me the panties your wife wore when she had sex with another guy, I’ll have them tested.”
A week later, Ralph dropped off a shopping bag containing his spouse’s underwear, assuring me: “These are definitely the ones she was wearing the other night when she ‘worked late.’” I took him at his word and sent the package to the lab.
A week ago, I received the test results and met with my client to review them. The lab had regretfully announced its inability to extract a semen sample from the clothing provided … because the underwear had been washed.
Twenty minutes of explaining later, Ralph finally understood why pristine undies would not suffice for DNA testing. Even so, his comprehension didn’t solve the problem, because his clever wife launders her apparel nightly. Consequently, procuring any soiled panties from the Mrs. seems nigh impossible.
Ralph left my office bowed but undefeated, vowing to return with something of his wife’s “covered in cum.”
Let’s just say I didn’t feel overly optimistic about seeing Ralph again. I don’t know his spouse’s IQ, but I’ll never confuse him for a Mensa candidate. And judging by the woman’s laundry trick, the odds didn’t favor him outwitting her.
Well, guess who showed up at my office this morning? That’s right; a very excited Ralph walked in and announced: “Richard, I did it! I got what we need, and it’s in my truck. Come see!”
He led me through the parking lot to his pickup truck. Waving in its direction, he exclaimed: “So, whadda ya think?”
I didn’t know what to conclude. The vehicle appeared empty except for a backseat from some other automobile resting in the flatbed. Confused, I asked: “Where’re the clothes?”
Ralph shook his head: “Not clothes. I’ve got something better: the backseat of her car. I’m sure she’s been screwing on it, and it definitely hasn’t been washed!”
I had to give the man an “A” for effort. But as I told him, I’m not at all sure the lab will do DNA testing on a car seat, much less accept delivery if we ship it there.