Welcome to the end of days my fine feathered friends. Yes, the final seal has been broken, the signs have all come to pass and the planets of doom have all aligned: your friendly neighborhood web ranter has managed to procreate. Yes, that's right, you read that correctly. I have spawned a new, more powerful life-form, one whose birth will signal the beginning of the end for you all, for it is impossible for the world to house two beings with my genes without exploding. So stretch properly, because it's time to bend over and kiss your own butts goodbye.
How did this happen you ask yourselves? Well, that's none of your damn business you filthy perverts, this isn't that type of essay. The important thing is that I, the most immature, irresponsible, mentally deficient human being on the planet—with the possible exception of a bus full of clowns—has contributed to the creation of another life. And as luck would have it, it's a boy. A little dude of my own making, modeled after me, born and bred to do my bidding and follow in my footsteps. (Insert evil laughter here)
As I ponder the miracle of fatherhood, I find myself wondering, not if I will be a good father, for I know that I will be, but whether I can successfully get my spawn to believe an outrageous lie—and if so, how outrageous a lie can it be? Let me explain. New York City does not require a child to attend school until he or she is about five years old. In that time, the first five or so years, I have free reign over my spawn and can tell him whatever I choose to tell him. These are the years that parents usually waste futilely teaching their children where their noses are and whatever language they speak at home or how to bathe and use the toilet properly, and other such useless crap. Me? I think I will spend every moment convincing my child that he is a space alien conceived as part of a truce between two warring planets and sentenced to remain on earth until such time the current ruling class of Dhjd-7 has passed on and he can take his rightful place and bring peace and prosperity to the universe.
Or maybe I could convince him that his mirror self is actually his twin brother, imprisoned for not solving the unanswerable question of the universe, and then set him to work. Or maybe that comic books are historical documentaries. Oh, the possibilities are endless.
But in all seriousness, I am very excited about my upcoming role as Overlord of my half-clone. There is a downside to it, however. My thoughts, for one, are now completely beyond my control. Like a parasite, my spawn has co-opted my brain through the use of telepathy, and now I am capable only of thinking about it, its needs and its future. I see dangerous hazards in everyday life: light sockets, sharp corners, open windows, my pit of broken glass, my indoor campfire, and my collection of uncorked vials of deadly poisons—all things that had once seemed so innocuous and innocent, now looks absurd and unnecessary. I've been commanded by this parasite to reassess the decor of my home. Dirt-covered walls, and bacteria-infested table tops no longer seem appropriate. Neither does the stark, all consuming black paint of my walls. The parasite—for some reason—demands light, fluffiness, cheeriness and sanitary living conditions. And to make things worse, I'm forced to mentally prepare for the eventuality of its departure from my home into the real world, not as a good release from the parasitic intrusion, but as a sad, unwanted event.
Seriously, however, I think the joy of creating a life, seeing it grow from tiny, helpless infant, into a full grown, fully functional human adult, is one of life's greatest miracles and most joyous events. Am I ready for it? Hell no! No one is. Anyone who says they are should have their kid taken away because they obviously haven't the slightest idea of what that little spawn-clone is or what it entails to care for it. If you did, you'd be scared outta your mind 24/7.
Though so far it's all worth it. I haven't even seen my little Once-Sperm, and I love it already, am already elated beyond words to have it around. I'm especially grateful for two things: one is that as my wife gets cravings, I can indulge my sweet tooth without feeling bad about it—consequently, I'm gaining more weight than she is right now. And the second thing I'm grateful for is that I'm not the one pushing that little bundle of life outta my body, cuz that looks like it would hurt. I'm not one of those idiots who thinks it’s easy to give birth. Hell no! It looks painful, it sounds painful and I think I'll need an epidural just to be able to watch it. So, my hats off to you, my lovely, brave, incubating wife. Thank you for doing what I am neither equipped nor strong enough to do. You are either very courageous, or possibly the dirt-dumbest masochist in the world—LOVE YOU!!! : )—Cuz if it were up to me to gestate, we'd be adopting a little Chinese baby and passing it off as our own and name it something truly ethnic like, Knut Mi Son.