Thursday, April 21, 2011

Nighttime Endeavors (or, Sleepy Shenanigans)

3:47 am – my bed

—Ugh. Can’t sleep…again. Damn this is annoying. How do other people do it? Lying in bed and doing nothing should be the easiest thing in the world. Considering how lazy I am, one would think that I’d excel at such a task. No such luck, it seems.

Well, since I’m awake, what should I do? Think up an idea for another blog column? Plan elaborate and intricate revenge schemes upon those who have wronged me? Watch some tv?

—Nah, don’t do any of those things. Let’s do something fun!

—What? Who are you?

—I’m the other voice in your head, genius.

—Ahhh. Wow, that explains quite a lot. So what do you want to do?

—Let’s make up limericks!

—You serious?

—Sure. Limericks are fun and you never hear any new ones.

—To be honest, I don’t know if I’ve ever heard any. I know about the Guy from Nantucket one, but I’ve never heard the whole thing. I’m assuming it has something to do with felatio. Anywho, limericks sound like fun. Go ahead.

—Okay, let’s see…

There once was a guy named Lyle

Who never knew how to smile

He tried and he tried

Until the day he died

But nobody showed up to his funeral because he couldn’t smile and people thought that he was a pathetic waste of life who deserved to die alone and rot in a forgotten grave.

—Hmmm. That started off pretty well, but I think you took a wrong turn into Crazytown at the end there.

—Damn, making up limericks isn’t as easy as I thought it’d be. You try.


There once was a girl I’d date

Whose breasts would occasionally lactate

It made such a mess

All over her dress

And didn’t even taste all that great.

—That was…interesting? But you should probably not insert yourself into the limerick?

—Why not? It didn’t actually happen to me. I just picked words that rhymed.

—Perhaps, but if you want your limerick to catch on, you can’t start with “I” or “me,” otherwise people are going to attribute it to themselves. Besides, unless she’s a hip chick, not many women would say it.

—Good point. Okay, how about this:

There once was a man named Eugene

Who always kept his pipes very clean

He’d flush them a day

The natural way

By jerking off into a stream.

—We are a weird dude.

Friday, April 01, 2011

Baby Daddy

I usually don’t write blogs that aren’t funny. I think I did it a few times. Once when I was called back into the Army for my third deployment to Iraq and once about the first killed person I saw. I usually like to keep things light and funny, but it would be dumb to pretend that real life doesn’t intrude into this humor blog.

Do you know how, when people ask guys if they have kids and the guy will jokingly say “Nope…At least none that I know about!” Then everybody has a good laugh and they go about their business? I know I would say that all the time.

Well, it seems that I can’t anymore.

It looks like my past “slutty” ways have finally caught up to me, and not in the way that I figured.*

I got an email yesterday from a woman…let’s call her “Nancy,” who I had a history with a few years ago. In her email she informed me that due to previous encounters, (with me) she had gotten pregnant. Of course, since all of my relationships are so short and end so badly, we hadn’t been talking for a couple of months by the time she found out. And, as pregnancies usually go, she gave birth. Turns out that I have a three-year-old son. His name is Devon, (which is a name I would never inflict on anybody. No offense to anybody named Devon.)

She also left her number in the email, so I gave her a call to confirm what she had written. I was reeling, but the math added up. A three-year-old means that she and I were together four years ago, which would be 2007.

My mind was blown. I am the most immature, childish, selfish guy I know. I just became employed in the last seven months and I live at my mom’s house. I watch Spongebob and Japanese porn and drink consistently. I’m the LAST guy who should be a father. I know convicted sex offenders who would be better dads than me!

If you’re wondering why “Nancy” was revealing this bombshell three years late, the answer is the first and most obvious one: she needs money. Turns out that raising a kid as a single mother isn’t cheap. There’s childcare, hospital bills (Devon was seven weeks premature) food, clothes, diapers, etc. And while “Nancy” usually has no problem finding a boyfriend to help her with these bills, recently she’s been alone and found the burden to be too much.

“Nancy” isn’t asking me to marry her, or be her boyfriend, she just wants me to pick up the slack on bills for Devon, starting with my three-year backlog. I’m not going to say how much that money is, but it’s a hefty sum, (hence my recent trip to Atlantic City. Which did not go well.) I feel that she has a point and if he’s my kid, then I should take care of my responsibilities.

Of course, IF is the operative word. While the time-line makes sense, and I do hate to use any kind of protection in bed, (or when driving, or walking or playing Russian Roulette) I can’t be 100% sure that Devon is my son (but if he is, the first thing I’m doing is fixing his name!) I’m getting off work early tomorrow to go take care of my half of the DNA test. I’m very nervous. I don’t know if I should hope that if he is my son, or if I should hope he isn’t. This isn’t Maury, I don’t have a “It’s not my son!” dance ready. Part of me wants to be a father, in the hopes that it’ll finally make me grow up and be a mature, responsible adult. Part of me hopes that he isn’t, so I can continue my Peter Pan lifestyle.

I’m afraid of what the future holds.

*I figured it’d be Herpeghonasyplaids.