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Biologists vs. Genetic IP Laws
An Anonymous Coward writes: "An article in the NYTimes discusses a recent international treaty aimed at protecting countries against 'recent efforts by some companies to commercialize substances from tropical plants and animals without seeking permission or paying royalties.' The treaty makes it almost impossible for honest biologists to collect samples or even conduct studies of indigenous wildlife. In some cases biologists with permits have been detained and their samples destroyed."
Fate, chance, karma, whatever you wanna call it -- when Miss Fortune spreads her legs for you, you're already in over your head. Believe me, I know.
...
Bunny LaFever looked like a dame with more curves and venom than Reggie Peeler's Land O' Snakes. But she wasn't a real dame. She was a she-devil. That golden bush of hers was nothing but a welcome mat to hell.
But now I'm getting way ahead of myself. Bunny had a way of doing that to jerks like me. She twisted us inside out and turned our heads around so we couldn't think straight anymore. So lemme begin at the beginning
Carnies got a word for a crooked game operator like me. They call me "Flattie" cuz I'll flat-out rob you and make you like it.
My name's Randy Everhard and I've got a million ways to take your money. One of my personal favorites is the "hopper shot." It's tossing softballs into toilet seats, which you've seen on every midway in your life. I could gaff the joint to make it impossible to win.
But where's the fun in that? I work it so any chucklehead can win all night long. Cuz once I've hooked a live one into thinking he can take me for a ride, that's when I nail him with the "build-up." Caught up in the excitement of winning game after game, the rube's built up to play twenty games at two bucks a pop. And the only prize he's going home with is a teddy bear that cost me three shekels per, wholesale. You do the math, Einstein.
The problem with selling three-dollar plush for forty scoots is that the build-up only pays off if you've got a steady string of suckers. And that night was turning out to be a real larry. The Laff Riot carnival was a flattie's wet dream. The grab joints and flashy rides were a front for the real action: flat stories, alibi and percentage joints, crap tables, slot machines, fortune wheels.
The show was running wide open. Everybody crooked and every joint gaffed and nobody doing a damn thing to stop it. I figured the cops were greased slicker 'n Liberace's asshole. It should've been like shooting trout in a barrel. Too bad nobody was taking my bait. I was up shit creek without a paddle to piss on.
My first goddamn night with the show, and already I was itchy for a new angle.
I can't remember which one of them I saw first: the blonde come-on dressed like she had an exhibitionist streak a mile wide or the square in the coke bottle glasses who was eyeballing her like she was nothing but something to look at. Of course, that Coppertone beauty really was something to look at. She was turning heads and raising dicks all over the place. But I didn't like him getting his eyes all over this piece of 100 percent corn-fed cocktease.
She was stacked like a double-decker Ferris wheel with nipples that could cut glass. The red double-O's stenciled on her football jersey were stretched over humongous hooters. She looked like a shooting gallery, bursting at the seams. You couldn't miss those twin titty targets. I'm talking knockers so big you could still see them when she turned around. And believe you me, she was one woman who looked as good going as she did coming.
She wore a pair of daring Daisy Dukes that were so short and tight her crotch sucked them in. The denim over her ass was thread-bare, blown out like a retread. And if that wasn't enough, she was doing a number on a grape Popsicle to make your peter wish it was frozen on a stick. That girl was one carnival ride I wanted to jump on quick, and I didn't care how many tickets it cost.
In my racket, though, business comes before pleasure. And this looked like a golden opportunity to work the key scam. It's the oldest con in the carny book.
I jumped the counter and made my way over to the chump with the steamed-up glasses. I was like, "Hot enough for ya? And I ain't talking about the weather, fella." At first he didn't buy it when I told him I was the "manager" of this fine talent. He just stood there mopping his brow with a hanky.
"I don't fuck chickens and I don't shit feathers," I said, "and I wouldn't lie about a piece of ass like that, neither." I gave myself a hard-on feeding him the fast talk: screwing her would make a man think he died and gone to heaven, where the streets are paved with solid gold snatch.
"She's a sight for sore eyes, ain't she? And if you think I'm giving you lip, you oughta see her go to town on a dick. Life-transforming, friend. Life-transforming." I pulled out an old key I kept for just such an occasion. Dangling it before his bug eyes, I spieled how it was the key to her room at some motel outside of town. "I'm talking once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, pal. She's the reason hard-ons were made."
He swallowed it all -- hook, line and sinker.
Chuckling over what he was going to tell his wife when he came home minus his paycheck, I made my way over to the sultry sex kitten. She was throwing heat like a furnace. Melting chocolate bars at twenty paces. It was too hot to fuck, but next to her, that scorcher felt like a cool, seaside breeze.
"I just made you twenty bucks, and all you had to do was stand here looking gorgeous, Gorgeous." She didn't say anything, just looked me up and down and blinked those big baby blues. The sheen of sweat on her face glowed under the neon lights. She'd sucked all the flavor out of the end of the Popsicle, so the tip was white.
I fished out a crisp, new bill and passed it over. She let it rest in the palm of her hand as she stared at it, confused. She tried giving it back to me, but I stopped her. "See that guy over there?" I asked, stepping aside to give her a glimpse. "He just paid me a lot of money to sleep with you."
He what?" she goes, insulted. She threw down what was left of her Popsicle and took a step closer. Her eyes burned like a butane flame. Like most women, she looked better when she was steamed. But I didn't want her making a scene. She was liable to blow the act.
"Don't get yer panties in a bunch," I said, shutting her cakehole with my hand. I told her about the con and then nervously took my hand away. I was sure she was gonna blow up again. But she kept quiet. I told her we had to scram and didn't give her a chance to say no. I just put my arm around her waist and steered her toward the exit gates. I gave Pops a back-handed wave as we booked outta there double-time.
My dick is long and my cons are short. Cop and blow, that's my motto -- take the money and run. Otherwise things got a way of getting ugly.
Two minutes later, we were hauling ass down the highway in my supercharged Chevy Menace. It was an acid green two-door with cheetah seat covers, four on the floor and dual exhaust. Twin cams and 440 horses under the hood.
"Say," I said, "what's your name, anyway?"
I was hoping to get to know every inch of her better. She smelled like coconut oil. Her tanned skin gave off heat like asphalt that'd been baking in the sun all day.
"Bunny," she goes. "Bunny LaFever." She was a real piece, too. I couldn't wait to do all sorts of dirty things to her. "How much you take him for?" she asked. "Two-fifty." In actuality I scored three-fifty. But if there's one thing I know about women, it's never tell them exactly how much money you've got.
Back at my room at the God bless America Truckstop Motel, she showed me that that sweet and innocent show was just a put-on. I was glad, though. I prefer a girl with some experience under her belt.
Before I knew it, she was all over me like stink on shit. Purple from the Popsicle, her tongue sprung to the back of my throat and then snaked all over the inside of my mouth like she was mining the gold fillings out of my teeth. Despite all the tongue wrasslin,' her hands were nowhere near where I wanted them to be.
My dick had been so hard for so long I thought it would blast off like a rocket, but she kept her distance. The teasing was cute at first but enough was enough. I grabbed her hands and planted them on the tent pole in my pants.
She pulled away and took a few steps back.
"You trying to insult me? You think you can have this body for free?" Bunny squeezed her 'lopes together, serving them up for my hungry eyes: "These tits alone cost five bucks to look at."
I chuckled nervously. "C'mon," I go, "quit screwing around."
"I'm totally serious. Five bucks or I'm gone."
I started laughing for real, digging the little swindler. What else could I do but pay up? She had me right were she wanted me.
This was one of those times in a man's life when he knows his dick's doing the brainwork but he doesn't care. Whatever the dick wants, the dick gets. That right there's the whole story of my life.
I plucked a five-spot from my wallet and waved it like a flag of surrender. She just looked at it. "I don't want your money now," she goes. "Pay me later."
"Whatever you say." And I just eased back on the bed to enjoy the show.
She peeled off her T-shirt and out bounced those giant, all-natural juggs. She had razor sharp tan lines from the sling of a skimpy bikini top. You could tell from her nips that the air-conditioning was on full-blast.
Bunny danced around the room, wiggling and shaking everything her momma gave her. I looked her up and down until I could've guessed her weight. She had all the right parts in all the right places and then some.
She neared the bed and leaned over me to let those massive, all-American melons swing inches above my face. "Wanna taste them?" she goes. As if she had to ask.
I lifted my head to suck the tantalizing titties into my mouth, but she snatched them away.
"Five bucks," she goes.
"All right, five bucks."
"Five bucks each, big spender."
"You got it."
"Pay me later," she cooed, and moved closer to bury me beneath her treasure chest. "Mmm," she purred, "you suck real good."
"Damn straight," I mumbled. "You're getting my money's worth."
She only laughed as her fingers spider-walked down to my crotch and unzipped my fly. "You'd like a tit-fuck, wouldn't you?"
It wasn't a question. It was a statement of fact. Some girls are mind readers, but Bunny LaFever was the first dick reader I ever had the pleasure to meet.
"Twenty bucks," she barked.
I was like, "A bargain at twice the price. Pay you later?"
"That's right, bright boy."
We switched places on the bed so that she was on her back. I kicked off my shoes and pulled down my pants and underwear. This dick of mine's got its own zip code and time zone.
When she gripped the shaft, her fingers didn't reach all the way around. She was like, "Lucky for you I'm still in my size-is-everything phase."
"Me, too," I said, dropping to my knees to straddle her. My hard-on slipped between her cleavage like a hot dog in its steamed bun. She pressed them together to make the sandwich good and tight as I began my strokes.
I humped her hooters harder to push my dick closer to her succulent mouth. She stuck out her pink tongue and tickled the tip. Back and forth it fluttered over the head.
"There's a freebie," she giggled. "But I won't take one in the mouth for less than twenty."
"How much to swallow?"
She had to think that one over. "Thirty," she answered. "And that's only cuz I like you."
I dismounted and stood beside the bed. She sat on the edge of the mattress to let her mouth get better acquainted with my cock. Her tongue twirled over my shaft until it looked like a monument of polished marble.
She blew me good and slow, repeatedly bringing me to the edge of orgasm and then stopping until the urge melted away.
The build-up felt so good it hurt. I never begged anyone for anything before. But tortured by her talented tongue, I was actually begging for mercy.
After some more tongue lashing, she finally let me fill her mouth. She swallowed, too, and it felt like my whole body was sliding down with it.
There is a parallel here with free speech I think. It seems that the restriction was against people who did research in the forest for the purpose of making money, but not against those who wanted to do basic research. But the restriction backfired, and now everyone is finding it difficult to get into the forest at all for any reason.
Seems like speech is the same way. Restrict it for some purposes, and before you know it, nobody can speak freely.
If tits were wings it'd be flying around.
These countries (and ours) can't even stop smugglers from transporting live animals not to mention agricultural products. Just get the locals interested in your "cause", and a black market will suddenly appear. After that, just complain bitterly about the black market and blame it on the ill-conceived bans.
This is another case of other countries' scientists whining about how far behind they are in the science game and trying to put a leash on American scientists.
Do you think they'd be so adamant about this if they were in the lead?
The Group considers that only human stem cells lines which have been modified by an inventive process to get new characteristics for specific industrial application are patentable. However, that stem cell which are been isolated and cultured but which have not been modified should not be considers as patentable inventions. Quoting from the press statement.
The full report is available here (here).
Line 9: Argument of type SIGNATURE expected.
I look at it the same way that I look at IP on human genes. If some poor schmuck has a genetic disease, and they use him as a guinea pig to figure out exactly what gene causes the disease, why should he be the only person in the chain that doesn't get compensated? The scientists get their wage, possibly much more, the company gets patents, and the potential revenue from the implementation of them, and this guy might get the chance to pay big coin for a treatment that he was instrumental in delivering.
No, look at it from the perspective of a poor country whose only real value is their natural, indigenous, resources. Why should they give them up for a medication that they probably won't be able to afford? Then, to add insult to injury, we try to get them to not destroy these resources for little things like farmland to feed their people.
So, yeah, good for them. If these scientists/companies want to take samples on the chance that something miraculous will come of it, they should start taking risks a little earlier, and paying these countries for the resources they are stewards of. Or, give them a stake in any patents that come out of it (with the royalties and profits to match). And if they don't like that, them leave that plant there and go home.
Sure I'm paranoid, but am I paranoid enough?
For example, a more recent article talks about the genome of an actinomycete fully sequenced. There have been many many antibiotics that were isolated from various organisms (the most famous was notably Alexander Fleming's overgrown moldy petri dish with zones of inhibition). Did he ever run into IP issues, patents, etc? I don't think so... Drug companies surely expect some sort of compensation for sending a Sean Connery look-alike out into the rainforest....