Questions I Need To Answer Before I Do The World A Favor And Procreate

Ladies, my sperm is off the market.

It's a crushing blow for vaginas everywhere. I understand your heartache. My sperm is kick ass. First off, it comes out of my penis and my penis is wicked awesome. If my penis had arms, it would have been the #1 pick in the NBA Draft. Greg Oden doesn't have anywhere near the offensive game that my penis and its little spindly arms would have. My fucking penis with arms is like the bastard stepchild of Kevin McHale and Tim Duncan. Just a beast on the blocks.

And don't even bring up Kevin Durant. My penis and its arms would shut down that stick figure every day of the week and twice on Sundays.

But my penis is mostly awesome because it's attached to me and I am, in the words of this BMX chick I nailed back in the day when I was going head to head on Helltrack against Bart Taylor, totally rad. And now I've decided to give back a little something to the rest of the huddled masses and procreate.

And by procreate, I mean fuck some chick so she gets pregnant. Because if I procreate, I'll be a pro at creating. Latin, you're so unnecessary.

That's my plan. Have a baby.  

But I'm not some idiot. Obviously. I understand that having a child is an incredibly serious undertaking. It's a life changing event and raising a kid is a fulltime quasijob for many women/ unemployed auto factory workers from Detroit. It would be irresponsible of me to rush into the whole procreating business and I am antiirresponsibility. If I'm going to have a kid, and actually admit to it without a court order, then I'm going to do this baby-making thing right.

Being a dad is more than just praying that your wife will end up paralyzed so that one day she'll explain to you that she loves you so much that it hurts her to see you alone and that, yes, you should by all means bang our daughter's hot college friends. Having children is not all rainbows, sunshine and paralyzed wife-sanctioned coed sex romps. This isn't the Oxygen Network; this is real life.

In preparation for the arrival of my heir, I've analyzed the world of fatherhood and have decided that are three issues that I need to settle before I stop aiming right between her eyes.

1. Which is more frightening- the thought of my daughter going to college or the thought of me doing hard time for chaining my daughter to her bedpost (I'll bring her lemonade and Seventeen, NOW. Don't get all feminasty on me.) and keeping her under lock and key until her ovaries dry up?

This is a tough one. I know some guys that have daughters and each one of them, to a man, has a look in their eyes like they've just gone up river with Martin Sheen. They're not just ready to kill for their daughters; they seem almost giddy at the prospect of beating some 16-year old kid to death and then dismembering the body with their bare hands.

I don't know if I want to be a killer. I mean, Dave's a killer but I'm not Dave. I'm me and I don't know if I want to spend the next 40-years sharpening knives and staring into the eyes of yet another of my daughter's dbag boyfriends at the moment when his mind registers that I've just plunged one of my steak knives into his belly. There are only so many times that you can gut a teenager before it gets a wee bit monotonous.

2.  Should I embrace my child's uniqueness, no matter how freakish or embarrassing, or should I crush their individuality and mold them into the person that I want them to be, knowing full well that they'll be miserable but also knowing that they'll be too psychologically messed-up to do anything about their anger until I'm dead and buried?

I want my child to be happy but wanting something is different from needing something. And I know that I need my child to be normal. And don't you dare say "what's normal anyways?" Fuck you, hippy guy reading Barstool Sports. The Weekly Dig's website is finally up and running. Go write a fucking blog about Jamaica Plain.

Everyone knows what normal is. Normal is normal. It's what people used to refer to as All American back when "All American" meant white and rich and wearing a letter jacket. Or white and rich and giving handjobs to white, rich guys in letter jackets if you were an All American girl.

But nowadays people want kids to feel good about who they are, no matter how fucking awful they truly are, so they tell them that everyone is normal. If you're an impressionable young person and you're reading this, good for you. That really has nothing to do with what I was talking about; I just wanted to stroke the egos of the little shitheads that make up the Barstool Youth.

If my kid is Goth and wants to wear makeup and drink blood then I'm cool with that. As long as he also brings the motherfucking pain on the gridiron. But having some Goth kid that's just so Gothtrocious that I'm left with no other option but to slip notes in his lunchbox that say things like "Just fucking end it already" and "My gun is in the bottom drawer of my nightstand," I'm not down with that.

3. Should I let my kid make the same mistakes I did, because Joe Biden says that the most important lesson in life is getting back up after we fall down (not literally. I think it's more of a metaphor.) or should I come down on him like I'm with the Anti-Defamation League and I just overheard some whiny Armenian talking about nonADL approved genocide?

I'm a big fan of hypocrisy and I do love me some corporal punishment. But I also like he hilarity that could ensue when my kid stumbles home shitfaced and I make him (notice how I refuse to even use a female pronoun. It's like I'm sending a not so subtle message to the eggs. Do the right thing, eggs. Or else.) run suicides in the driveway until he vomits blood.

Just to make life really miserable for the little bastard, I think I'll do a little of both. Lavish him with stories of my youthful escapades, send him on his merry way and then alternately praise his behavior or push him down a flight a stairs, based solely on my mood or the cycle of the moons.

I have a lot to figure out before I'm officially ready to procreate. Maybe I should have some practice kids with some random chicks first. Sorta like the Princeton Review for fatherhood.

Shoot, maybe I spoke too soon about my sperm being off the market. Ladies, there's still time. But act fast.

Because my wife is going to catch on sooner or later.