Welcome to the latest mind-blistering
missive from my spent casing of a noggin, filled to the rim with
shinola and burgeoning with backwash and partially chewed Red Vines.
decided that the ‘Slap’ is going to be about life. Personal shit.
Professional shit. Random shit. That way, the Steady Leaks I run on the
main site and the ranty blogs I run here have their
own life. I want this to be a place of whatever. It may bore you. It
may be of value. It may turn you into a Eunuch, except not as hung.
Worried About Parenting? Get a Big Dog.
Having a kid is the easiest thing in the world. Well, making a kid is the easiest thing in the world. Well, getting a guy to reach orgasm in the right time zone is the easiest thing in the world. Well… it’s easy to separate a guy from 250,000 – 500,000 of his best little friends. The rest is SCIENCE.
I don’t mean to disparage folks who have been unable to create a familiar. It’s really not easy. There’s all sorts of possible complications. In fact, I believe my mother had five or six miscarriages throughout the years following my arrival. I scorched the Earth on my way out, just in case…
It ain’t easy, but it’s simple. The fact that smart people and very dumb people can do it makes you wonder if it should be as simple as building a home on Baltic Ave. You look at the people out there who have children and are either thrilled out of their gourd or making it work walking past people who are a Rusty Nail away from Susan Smithing her kids into Tomorrowland and you fear for the future.
Or like last night at dinner, you watch a few guys in their mid to late 30’s repeatedly hit on a 21 year old cutie, obviously not fearing but wanting to wet hump the future.
I was one of those people who hated kids, didn’t want a kid, felt that the only good thing about kids was that I was taller than them… and now that I pretty much live and die with the little phantasm’s wants and dreams is evidence that all it takes is a little nudge and a big ejaculation to make it all work out.
Get a dog, people. A big one. A Doberman. A Rhodesian Ridgeback. A Boxer. A St. Bernard. A Bull Mastiff. Jeanne Tripplehorn. Something.
Oh, and love it. If you don’t, then you’ll let it stay outside for days or shit all up and down itself, and fend off starvation by eating Aunt Janet. The routine and demands and constant need for you, the Alpha, to ensure its survival and happiness will not only turn you into a well-oiled parental machine but also prepare you for any fluid or residue or gunk that is bound to come jetting out of your baby’s ass, privates, or some other of their many points of articulation.
Gretchen the Doberman [R.I.P] shaped me as a father and I don’t think that’s a bad thing or a statement about me as a parent. I mean, sure I rub my kid’s nose in her shit… or anyone’s shit for that matter, but aside from that it’s a clean argument.
Now I have Penny the Rhodesian [P.Y.T.] and it’s reminding me that I shoulda just had a kid…
They’re so much goddamn easier.
And now… another Mary Worth War Strip from the vault…
All apologizes to the creators of the strip. This intended as parody only and not an attempt to be the best thing ever.