I'm not a parent. At least, not that I'm aware of and if you know any different I'd be frankly grateful if you could not trouble me with unwelcome knowledge.
If I have impregnated you at some point, I can only apologise to you and your no-doubt confused offspring, but at the end of the day, get over it. A new, surrogate father is always waiting around the corner, even if it happens to be the corner of a primary school and they're dressed in some sort of see-through rain-coat. I don't see why I should be troubled by the fact that some (or one) of my wayward sperm happened to slip through the net. Admittedly, I shouldn't have worn a net but opted for a condom or a plastic bag or perhaps a small penis-hat made from melted wax, or whatever it is one should do to prevent these unfortunate occurances, but I haven't the time for such nonsense.
Inspired by a pub urinal prank I saw once, I realised that ladies could save a lot of bother by just layering their vaginas with clingfilm. Yes, this also takes up time, but I bet even Emily Pankhurst would have laughed her bollocks off when the spunk came splashing back.
Sadly, as a sexually promiscious male to whom contraception means 'opposite views', I will have to deal with the fact that one day my spawn will come knocking at my door, enquiring after my history, well-being and money. But I shall be prepared, when I'm rich and un-sueable.
To start with, I know they won't be knocking, but pressing the door bell. Now, I'm sure it would be a simple system to ensure that my DNA is recognised by said door bell. I'm also sure, it would be a simple thing for the button to work two ways and, if their DNA is recognised as being too much like my own, send a small electrical charge into the presser's body that makes them uncontrollably defecate.
I can not believe that any self-respecting child of my loins would wish to meet me, their father, for the first time, with pants full of excrement. Result: they run away before I can even conceive of getting off the sofa. Of course, there is the slight issue of how this buzzer technology would affect my family if they came to visit, or even those who accidently share some of my genes and just came looking to borrow a cup of sugar but ... Well, my family I would warn off ever visiting me, and nobody in the 21st century borrows a cup of sugar from a neighbour unless they happen to be a very large ant.
Persistence is a family trait, so within a week I expect my accidental offspring may arrive back at the door, only actuallly knocking this time. This is when a security camera would come in handy, something I could point to so when their opening line was "I'm your son/daughter," I would be able to reply:
"Didn't you cack yourself on my doorstep a few days ago?"
Result: hopefully the same shame-faced scuttle away from my living space.
Ah, but yes, they may come back. And yes, I'm prepared.
"Can I come in?"
"Yes, mayhap you should."
I would then insist that they removed their shoes before coming in to talk, and then also insist that they slip their feet into the two dead hedgehogs I keep for such emergencies. If asked why, I'll point out "I know where my feet have been."
If this doesn't put them off, and they slouch around my home with intestines squirting out of my favourite animal's mouths with every step, I may give them cash and love.
God, I hope I get rich.
No comments:
Post a Comment