Tuesday, April 24, 2007


As much as my dear mother wants her baby boy to go out there, find some woman with a strong enough constitution to let me clumsily thrust on top of her with reckless abandon, and spread my demon-seed in hopes of possibly producing an offspring with dreadlocks and a writing prowess - I never quite thought that I was father material. For one thing, I have absolutely no patience - so little in fact that if I ever decided to write a children's book I'm pretty sure that my very first offering would be entitled, "If you don't sit your ass down!!" As much as women with low self-esteem and loose morals might find me beating some random asshole at a watering hole as "sexy" - its not the sort of thing that I particularly want to pass down to my children. I just know that a common motif when it comes to giving my kids advice on anything would be a version of this: "Just walk right up to him, chop that motherfucker in the throat, and when he's on the ground, kick that son on a bitch until a sudsy foam develops from his mouth." But then again, I've seen children drastically change people for the better, turn stone-cold killers into lovable sit-com dads, transform a walking debt to society into a fine upstanding citizen. At the end of the day I now realize that my 33-year idiosyncratic routine has nothing to do with my lack of procreating.(Read more here)

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