To my adoring fans (yes, the both of you. Not you though, you’re a guy) who want to get impregnated by my awesome Ade Juice, now is not the right time for fatherhood for me, mainly because my idea of a good afternoon is sitting my fave couch, popping a Shrek DVD and wanking off to the voice of
Antonio Banderas Cameron Diaz. Yes, I’m mature and ready like that.
But kids would be nice to have around. Someday. No, not those cyber babies Liz and I made on the TMB forum. Real kids. To give me and my imaginary future wife happiness. Kids to have around at dinner. Kids to have for dinner when we run out of food. Because dead babies are delicious. With ketchup.
However, I think I’ve been drinking too much beer (or frappes, whatever) lately, or maybe that ciggy (yes, just one. Pathetic, I knoes) that Penny Lane gave me two weeks ago doused my brain with too much nicotine, or maybe those Spill Canvas mp3s messed with my mind, but I suddenly have the illusion that someday, I’d make an awesome father.
You see, I can’t imagine myself going home, drunk, and beating up my wife and kids with a metal pipe and after which I ask them to make me a sammich while screaming “Remember the Alamo!” or “Banana Gangbang!” or something intelligent like that. On the contrary, I imagine myself going home, carrying a bag of surprises for my kids, a bunch of roses for my (imaginary) wife, and a doggie bag for the Labrador. And the kids would come running to me, smiling and baring those wonderful pearly whites, and I’d hug them all and the music from “Father Knows Best” would play in the background. Afterwards, I’d cry like a little girl. Because I love them so.
But the prospect of seeing their father cry more than they do may be a little daunting for my future kids. I believe that they’ll be scarred for life. And in growing up denying that they have a girly wimp for a father, I’m imagining they’ll be taking up these professions:
Drug Cartel Lord
If you have a wimp for a father, you’d be choosing the most awesomest and manliest job in the world, where you can kill hundreds of hapless people and ruin the lives of countless teens. Right?
This would be an ironic thing to do since they’ll be taking up where I left off since I myself am a rockstar, but they might take it a few notches further. I see them offering human virgin sacrifices to the devil and pray for the demise of their rock star father, who totally botched up the rock star job a few years ago.
Enlightened Mountain Hermit
When you’re raised in poverty, the next best thing for you to do do? Yes, take up Buddhism, go up a mountain, spend a few years there, and yes, you become enlightened and realize that your father is a douchebag. And have secks with Buddha. Yay!
Ah yes, I’d be a great father.
(To my imaginary future wife: I know that at this point you may be creeped out already and have decided to cut off all contact with me. I think you are now calling the cops and giving them my home address and all so that they can arrest me and throw me in a mental institution or someplace where I can get buttraped by a dozen burly convicts. No, contrary to what you believe, it is not paradise. Also, I’m broke right now. Also, don’t get creeped out. Liz here says I’ve got a boy-next-door vibe. That’s good, right? No? K!
And I look like Dominic Ochoa. I mean, being compared to him actually pisses me off, but if that’s your thing, so be it. Also, I promise to marry you and love you for the rest of my life and worship you. Next to my collection of severed cat heads.
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