I love the Internet. After you get home, there’s so much you can do to relieve yourself from the doldrums the work day relentlessly breeds. (The mundane, I swear, it multiplies like it’s a coupla Catholic bunnies.) From the many hours of my life sacrificed at the altar of our newest god, YouTube; to the burgeoning days of HotOrNot.com where I spent, oh, an every now and then looking for old girlfriends so I could rate them “hot” (I’ve got a reputation to protect, don’t ya’ know); to the social networking sites of Facebook.com and MySpace.com where I get to point and laugh at a number of people I randomly happen across… and who’re probably laughing just as loudly as they look upon my antics; the Internet certainly cheers me up throughout the day.

My favorite site for this day, however, is not a comic, nor a movie trailer site, nor even an opportunity to kill some zombies (hint: go for the knees).

Today’s fun site is Cops Writing Cops.

I admit it, I’m a sucker for some of the drama out there in Internet Land. Even if the drama is entirely manufactured and magically pulled from the rabbit’s furry butt, it amuses me. In this case, it amuses me a bunch. Here we seem to have a site dedicated to police officers complaining about other officers because they, the writers, received traffic tickets from their blue-shirted bruthas. They detail badge numbers, departments, where they got busted, and when available, first and last names of the ticket-writing coppers.

Oh, John Law. You funny.

The rest of us civilians complain often and loudly when we get tickets. Whether we’re guilty as hell, or the ticket was given in error (me, I’ve always been guilty of speeding, but I make allowances for you angels out there), we reserve our right to gripe, whine, moan and grumble. Schadenfreude in cases like ours can be dull and as tasteless as brussels sprouts because, hey, tickets happen to most everyone and even Turkish Delight becomes commonplace after too many helpings.

In the case of Cops Writing Cops, however, it’s a delicious feast.

Mind you, not because of any special dislike of the police. No, it’s because the level of entitlement in these stories is turned up to 11. Perhaps the one comment that sums the whole site up for me is:

“Please someone explain this mentality to me. No matter how much I try I just don’t understand why a brother officer feels so compelled to write another officer a ticket. I can’t see any other explanation other than the fact that he is simply a DICK.”

Really? Not even if you tried really, really hard? Not even then would you think about how breaking the law is sometimes tailed by actual consequences? Not even when you consider that a blanket allowance of letting other officers out of tickets is a shining example of corruption?

Still, that’s not even the worst (just the majority of complaints); the extra, super-special unbelieveable complaints are the ones where the writers talk about how their spouses and kids aren’t being given a pass—even if they go the extra mile and offer to let the ticketing officer to talk to their Keystone relative on a cell phone.

Heh.

I wish I were an officer; I’d submit my own story:

I was traveling westbound on I-66 on Sunday going 5 in a 55. In a seat beside me were a bloodied butcher’s knife and a puppy I like to kick; in the backseat were a bomb (conveniently labeled “Bomb!”), a preserve jar filled with ominous feeling, Satan, Thomas Beckett, that loving feeling someone lost, and the 1999 version of Napster, back when it was an evil, evil file sharing program.

And, wouldn’t you believe it? A state patrol cruiser flashed its lights for me to pull over! I was tempted to push my Ford Pinto (orange and white) up to 10 and make a break for it, but I figured, nah, I’m an officer of the law; I’ll be thrilled to chat with my fellow copper, receive a chastisement, pretend to learn my lesson, and go on my merry way.

After we safely settled in the grassy median (I can park there when being pulled over; I have a badge, and it’s shiny), the officer got out of his car, mosied on over, and knocked on my window. “License and registration, please,” he said.

“Sure. Here you go officer. Also, here’s my department badge, Fraternal Order of Police certificate, ‘I’m a cop! Truly!’ bumper sticker, and my penis. It’s detachable.”

The trooper peered inside my car. “Is that Satan?” he asked, and glanced at The Evil One.

“Yes. A few beers, a midnight ritual, blood of my neighbor’s cat, this is what happens.”

“And have you been kicking that puppy?”

“Every hour on the hour!”

“Hold on. I’ll be right back.”

Awesome, I thought. He’ll probably come back with a beer for me. Or, maybe even a pretty girl in fishnet stockings who’s been very, very naughty. I like being a cop.

But, no! The bastard came back with a ticket. A ticket! For driving too slow. A ticket! The fucker! “Wait one second!” I yelled at him. “I’m an officer of the goddamn law! Where’s the courtesy, the respect, the fraternal—and completely platonic—love for another dude of the blue?”

He shrugged. “Look, I ignored 1999 Napster. That should be enough. Have a nice day.”

Yeah, yeah, right. Nice day my ass, Officer O’Malley O’Brian, badge #3422556Bc1$. You just wait until I get home to blog about this. You’ll rue, my friend, you’ll rue this muthafuggin’ day!

Hmm… perhaps I should post it over there, anyway. It certainly couldn’t be any less jaw-droppingly astounding than some of the other stories. Plus, who knows, maybe I’ll impress enough people that someone will offer to send me a junior policeman badge.

That’d rock.

Based solely on the latest set of sonograms given to us at our last doctor’s appointment, Wiggy has transformed from a vague brine-looking sea monkey, and into an actual vague person-looking thingy:

See that nose? Adorable, isn’t it? Wiggy gets it from her ma, the Insta-Princess.

Now, I’m not saying my own schnoz is lacking in the looks department, but on the whole, if I had to compare the two, my vote goes toward the Insta-Princess’s nose as being the cutest. Mine’s a more rugged look, closer in description to aquiline than button. (The phrase “cute as a button” always reminds me of Button-Bright, the curly-headed wanderer from The Road to Oz. His real name, by the way, is Saladin Paracelsus de Lambertine Evagne von Smith. And, yes, I did suggest that as a final name for Wiggy, but my suggestion was turned down. Although, not so much turned down, mind you, as laughed out of the room… taking me along with it.)

Wiggy, sensing an audience, yawned while we were taking a black-and-white peek. Cutest damn thing, evah. We’re pretty sure it was a yawn; it looked like a yawn, and the doctor didn’t disabuse us of that notion, so we’re going to stick with it being a yawn. For all we know it could have been a fart, rerouted through Wiggy’s esophagus due to the lack of a fully-formed butt.

So, yeah, a yawn.

Gee, that’s all. I thought I had a lot more to say, but breaking into a bottle of wine and stealing all of its goods last night didn’t quite put the spring into my step this morning. It was made worse, even, because I had to go it alone thanks to Wiggy’s upcoming arrival.

But I updated The Blog, and by golly, that’s important.

Dear Penthouse,

I never thought it would happen to me. And, so far, I’ve been right.

Dear Chums,

Did I ever tell you about the time I went to the Insta-Princess’s family reunion? The one from this past July?

No?

Well, let me start off by saying that I don’t play golf. I’ve been on a golf course maybe twice in my life, but I can’t say what I did on the course even remotely resembled “playing golf”. I’d probably have come much closer to success either time by bringing a pool cue and playing billiards with a Titleist. (I did, however, throw a golf club down the fairway just so I could live a cliché.) The Insta-Princess accuses me of being old, grumpy and white, but if golf were the clear indicator of all three, you couldn’t tell by me.

Now, we had just finished up with my family’s reunion the week before, so the Insta-Princess and I weren’t looking forward to yet another one. Plus, it was during my family reunion that we discovered Wiggy was gonna burst on the scene, so you can imagine that we wanted some time off to absorb the ramifications of this new eighteen year tax deduction. Still, despite our protests that one reunion a year was enough for us, my mother-in-law insisted, and had in fact paid for our tickets in a bid to get us to make an appearance. Half our battle was won: we attended the Friday evening get-together and went on the lam for the next day’s gathering.

Actually, the Friday meeting was pretty nice. Slightly cramped, sure, but everyone was kind, snacks and drinks were provided, and I got to meet a lot of people I’ll never remember, and see numerous photos that were excellent, but that I’ve already forgotten. Thus is the way of reunions.

What I didn’t care for was the planned activity for the evening. That is, someone evil devised a “find this kind of person” game where you went around with a sheet in hand and had to match a random person with one of the attributes listed on the sheet. For example, the sheet provided such characteristics as “grew up on a farm” or “likes to fish”—and for both, separately, you’d have to find a person in the room who either grew up on a farm or liked to fish. Simple, eh?

There were numerous entries that described me in some way. I like to fish, you know? And, heck, I like to bowl, read a lot, collect wine, and ride a motorcycle. But, did I get asked any of those questions?

Not a chance.

My being the only white guy in the room, however, afforded nearly half the answer-seekers the opportunity to come up to me and say, “Now, I know you play golf.” There was no question or doubt; there was just this indubitable insistence that I, the palest dude in the room, hit the links. And by the sixth or seventh time this happened, the Insta-Princess and I were nearly in tears trying to hold back the laughter.

Good god. I look like an old, grumpy white guy who likes to play golf. I just can’t win.

Le sigh.

You ever catch The Monster Squad?

Probably not.

Like a bastard child of Goonies and Gremlins, The Monster Squad focused on the adventures of a group of steadfast friends whose movie-esque troubles centered around, obviously enough, monsters, instead of bank robbers and vicious Mogwai. Their main nemesis? Dracula. His buddies? Frankenstein’s monster, the Wolfman, a sartorial mummy, and a creature from some lagoon. (I don’t think they had rights to use the name “Creature from the Black Lagoon,” so they called it “Gillman”. No, seriously.)

The film had plenty of weaknesses, and proved it in 1987 by failing brilliantly at the theaters. The critics at the time didn’t help, mind you, pushing the stake in a weeeeee bit further by giving it some pretty disappointing reviews. And, rightfully so.

But, here’s the thing. Unlike Buffy, the Vampire Slayer (televisión, not el film-o), a cult favorite due to its impressive writing, emotional depth, and campy but surprisingly accurate metaphors for surviving high school, The Monster Squad remains a cult icon thanks to its just being fun.

Despite being able to go batty (and hover, unchanged, in mid-air) does Dracula drive a black hearse with a skull jutting out from the hood? You betcha. Does he employ that ages-old and deceptively simple trick of calling himself “Mr. Alucard”? Uh-huh. Does Frankenstein’s monster stumble (slowly) across a little girl playing all by her lonesome? Sure, why not. Van Helsing make an appearance? Yep. No-one-believes-the-kids-so-they-have-to-save-the-world-all-by-themselves?

Fuck, yeah.

But the sheer enjoyment one can suck out of the film is probably best illustrated by this one YouTube clip:

“Wolfman’s got nards…”

G’bless ’em. Even if they didn’t do anything else right in the movie (they did), that line would still be a classic. (Well, classic to those of us who’ve thus far refused to mature.) They even managed to encapsulate some of the dumbest and most telling vocabulary ever uttered by a middle school kid in the ’80s: using “dorked” as a euphemism for getting laid. (In a related bit, the end of the movie has a hilarious scene where one of the boys is arguing with his older, high school-aged sister about whether she’s a virgin. She had just read aloud this mystical text that would have saved the day if she were, you know, all pure and stuff. Unfortunately, after the reading, nothing happened. Not even a weak abracadabra:

“You’re not a virgin, are you?” She shakes her head.

“‘No’? What do you mean, ‘No’?”

“Well… Steve, but he doesn’t count!”

“DOESN’T COUNT?!” )

So, The Monster Squad, I salute you. You bring back a little bit of the Halloween of my youth. Now, if I could only get a hold of some of those deliciously creepy sets…

Now that Wiggy is busy building lips and ears and cheeks (many kinds) and a possible future receding hairline, the Insta-Princess and I’ve discovered that we now have to consider some of life’s kicks-in-the-butt that we previously thought wouldn’t (in the words of the wise ’80s prophet, Matthew Wilder) “break [our] stride”.

For instance, do we allow spanking? If so, should we wear the leather outfits and ball gags? Or, should we save it as a disciplinary measure for Wiggy should he do something naughty like bury the neighbor’s cat?

Since, for the most part, we weren’t really planning on having kids, these conversational topics failed to make their way to the top of the list; instead, we focused more on areas of interest designed for the dual income, no kids crowd. Like:

“Wanna cook dinner tonight?”

“No. Do you?”

“Not a chance. How about fast food?”

“We had that last night.”

“Right. Sounds good, though.”

“Yeah. We haven’t tried the Arby’s on the other side of town. Betcha it tastes different than all the other Arby’s we’ve been to.”

“Brilliant theory. Let’s go—hey, are we waddling?”

In our defense, we talk about smart things, too, like String Theory. Her opinion is that string cheese is pretty damn good, and mine generally centers around, “Say, did the cat eat string again? ‘Cause, otherwise, what’s that coming out of her butt?”

I suppose the one child raising consideration that we’ve (largely) done our best to ignore is religion. Now, luckily, the both of us don’t really butt heads when it comes to worshiping an almighty. Me, I’m an ex-Catholic who eventually transformed into a mighty robot atheist; the Insta-Princess is somewhat more inclined to believe in a vague “something” out there that has, thus far, handed her a good life (including, despite her occasional complaints and handful of restraining orders, moi). Personally, I kinda wish atheists would go the route of rituals and robes—because that was always pretty cool—but otherwise I haven’t missed religion. (I was an-occasional-weekend-but-mostly-holidays Catholic, anyway, so my lifestyle didn’t change much with the exception that I started enjoying Sundays a whole heckuva lot more.

Hey, pews ain’t comfortable.)

But, how do we deal with Wiggy? I’d like to think that personal religious preference is just that: personal; however, I also know full well that even if our own families didn’t believe differently than we do, there’s a world full of neighbors who won’t allow personal to remain such. People are nosy (including me) and will happily demand to know your religion (well, okay, I don’t do that); and if you happen to give the wrong answer, they’ll be sure to supply you with the proper instructional tract. Still, even if the adults in her world are gracious enough to leave that topic alone , Wiggy will face questions from her curious classmates, so she’s probably going to come across religion about five minutes after walking across that kindergarten classroom threshold.

I’m all for leaving religion out of our daily lives until she brings it up. And, then? Well, I want to introduce her to critical thinking as early as possible, but seeing as she’ll be, oh, a wee bit too young for that, I’ll probably try to stick to something short and simple like, “Nada. We believe in zilch.” Or, “We believe in Arby’s and the holy 5 for $5.95. Amen.”

Except, Santa Claus. By golly, Wiggy’s gonna believe in Santa Claus… even if he didn’t die for our sins. (Yeah, well, Jesus never saved Charlie-In-The-Box from the Island of Misfit Toys, either, so it’s pretty much a wash.)

In case you don’t recognize it, the title of this post has been gleefully stolen from a book of the same name by, in my opinion (considerable that it is—also in my opinion), one of the best writers alive. Well, I assume he’s alive. He’s never called me, which is a shame because I have no doubt that we’d get along like gangbusters: I’d fawn and he’d preen. But, since he hasn’t called me, I guess I just don’t know whether he’s really, truly alive. I could query the wide world of Internet, but hell, anyone can make a dead person a zombie, given an anonymous proxy and five minutes to play around on Wikipedia.

So, William Goldman, if you’re still kicking things around (avoid buckets), give me a call to let me know how you are. You can then yell at me for stealing the title of one of your books. Until then, however, I aim to borrow it. And by “borrow” I mean “unabashedly steal like the little thief that I am”.

But, back to me. Or, more aptly, back to the lovely Tricia. (It’ll come back to me. I promise.) Now, Tricia had commented on my last entry, and had asked a question. Not one to miss an opportunity to write yet another blog entry to hear myself talk, I thought I’d devote a whole new entry to her question instead of answering in the comments. Lucky gal.

Boy or girl, she asked. (Wiggy, she’s referring to. Not me. I’m pretty sure Tricia knows what I am, and I know I know. But, just in case no one else knows… I’m a girl. No, boy. Damn.) Are the Insta-Princess and I, Tricia wants to know, going to find out whether Wiggy will be wearing next year’s exciting Spring collection of hoo-ha or kickstand?

In a word, no. (In a longer word, noooooooooooooooo.)

The Insta-Princess and I have no problems with soon-to-be parents finding out the gender of their kid. After all, there are perfect names to consider, colors to choose, toys to buy, clothes to get ready, and, most importantly, fights to have over whether a loving parent really should put his or her child through the most outrageous infant torment ever devised: The Harrowing Headband of Hell

For us, though, we’re going a different, headbandless route. We choose yonder path of surprise! Neither of us has a favored gender, so as long as Wiggy is intelligent, accomplished, talented, can fly, has the right number of nostrils, is a natural on the harmonica (just like his old Pa, no matter what anyone else says), and can convert base metal into gold, there will be love enough to spare. (No alchemy, though, and no bedtime stories. I remain anchored to that belief.)

Girls are adorable and funny and fun and for all of them that aren’t related to me, great to snog. They do, however, have this teensy-weeny social paranoia problem come the age of the teen. I’m afraid that, as good as I might be in other areas (computers, Halloween, books, and um… harmonica), I’ll fail as a fatherly paragon of good advice when it comes to the teenage years. Hell, I spent my teens lusting after the gals, not actually listening to them. The only sagacious advice I’ll probably be able to offer a Her-Wiggy would be, “Don’t get pregnant.”

Also, “You’re grounded.”

The last, admittedly, isn’t much good as advice, but I figure if she’s grounded, she can’t get pregnant. (Danae and Zeus aside, that is.) On the other ovary, however, girls can break gender roles much easier than their trouser snake counterparts. So, if she wants to be a king when she takes over the world, no one will blink an eye–or if they do, they’ll be executed, because that’s how Wiggy will roll. The reverse regal title for a He-Wiggy wouldn’t quite be viewed the same way. (Don’t look at me. I don’t make the rules; I just make bad jokes about them.)

Boys are hellions when younger. I wouldn’t have the same worries about a He-Wiggy when he reaches the teen years, but what if the little rascal kills me by virtue of having waaaaay too much energy? I don’t even take my dog for a walk on a regular basis, and the law quite clearly spells out that I can’t tie Wiggy to a leash and let him run around the yard in a circle until he’s exhausted. (Meddlesome, do-gooder politicians.) Still, men are judged by more than just their looks, so it’s possible that, like his Pa, he could still lose his hair and score a hot babe like his Ma. (Not his Ma, though. Just so we’re clear. I’m open-minded and all, but limits, folks, limits.)

So, the Insta-Princess and I are delaying these worries by not finding out beforehand. We figure we’ll freak out enough when the equipment, no matter ball or basket, comes popping out. (Or, I will. The Insta-Princess will be happy and content and sublime and totally, absolutely, out-of-her-mind, drugged. Go figure.)

Thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump-a-thump…

That’s not the sound of an excited dog’s tail, nor is it the restless taboo of my foot as I wait for the local drivers to figure out and work their way through a roundabout (on the other hand, that’s also kind of funny). No, that excited pitter-patter is what I heard a couple of days ago after the Insta-Princess’s doctor lubed her belly and had us listen to the fetal doppler (as opposed to a fatal doppler, which is when a local news channel weatherman collapses under the weight of his dire “wind! snow! er, did I say wind!” predictions… and expires).

That, my friends, is the sound of Wiggy’s heart. Beating too fast, you say? Maybe not human? Nonsense. Wiggy’s just taking after his/her pa, that’s all. I mean, the Insta-Princess often tells me that I lack a heart, and I know it’s not the same thing, but look, two weird heart issues right there. Wiggy and I are obviously related.

One hundred and sixty. The first one hundred and sixty sounds I’ve ever heard my kid make. (True, Wiggy might also be burping by now, but I’m not sure whether the burping organ has been formed yet. I hope it has. Burping’s great fun. At any rate, I haven’t heard it, so I wish they’d hurry up and develop a fetal burpoppler.)

I thought it’d be kind of cool if Wiggy grew up to be a rock star, so with that helltastically great beat, now I know Wiggy’s a natural drummer. This is definitely good for Wiggy’s groupie status (i.e., he’ll have some); after all, while the drummer doesn’t get as much play as the singer, he certainly gets more than the bassist. Oddly, the roadie gets the most.

Me, I was a roadie once. I was allowed to be a Roadie-On-The-Spot (carrying out an amp and a stand) for the gorgeous gals of Softee, and for an all too brief moment of rock-‘n’-roll glory, I was able to puff out my chest, glare at the doorman and sniff in contempt as I haughtily told him…

“I’m with the band.”

Oh, Wiggy, with your 160 beats a minute, you, my dear kiddo, you’ll go much further than your roadie dad. I’m proud of you.

… or, better yet, jumping the broom. A good friend* of mine recently got engaged, so I thought I’d spend a little time today passing along advice about being married. I’ve had tons of experience,** so I’m clearly qualified to hand out the words o’ wisdom.

Skippy’s Marital Advice:

And, I really, really mean it. So, take that advice to heart.

Wait. You wanted something sagacious? Something meaty, something you could stick a matrimonial fork into? Well, here’s the deal: I know nothing, except each day the Insta-Princess takes one of her dainty feet and kicks me in the direction she wants me to go. She has all these rules I gotta follow, and I must say—just between you and me—that some of them are pretty durn selfish. For example, I’m not allowed to date anymore. Not even first dates, where, statistically-speaking, chances of getting any are the lowest of any date, numbers 1- 10.

“You’re also not allowed to cheat,” she warned me. Oh, sure, take the fun out of it. I mean, if there’s anything I learned from Lifetime movies, it’s that men are supposed to cheat and otherwise be bastards. (True, I’m also supposed to be a doctor and drive a BMW, but I figured we were just reading from a different script.) I can’t cheat, I’m not even allowed to date, so I don’t know what else she can do to—

“The serial killing? Stop it. Stop it now. It’s embarrassing.”

What? Geez, now I can’t even have a hobby.

So, there you go, my pretty, betrothed friend. My advice to you is to not take away his hobby. That can really kill a relationship.

I readily, willingly and unabashedly admit it: I’m a Buffy fan.

Close your mouths. It’s not pretty.

I used to be a little more reticent about such a personal revelation, but it’s been ten years since the show first aired, and since then I’ve successfully managed to convert a few girlfriends and a wife into fans. So, if I go down, I’m bringing them with me. (Speaking of which, my lovely wife, The Insta-Princess, even performed a magic trick or two and abracadabra’d a poster of Buffy (and co-horts) into a framed poster of Buffy (and co-horts). I know, I know… she’s mystical like that—ya gotta be in awe of her. She’s even allowed me to hang it up on the wall. In full view of friends, relatives, guests, child protective services, and everyone. Obviously, she is gracious as well as beautiful and powerful.)

So, while I’m comfortable with my own personal Buffy lurve, I admit that I’m afraid of the rest of Buffy’s fans. See, you’d think that come this Friday, waiting in line to see the musical episode on the silver screen, we’d have something in common. But, we don’t. I bathe, for example; I can’t guarantee the same about them. Normally, I don’t bake a cake for the creator of the show on his birthday; again, I make no promises about the rest of the fans. They pass food along to each other, down from one end of the line to the next; I demur. They, it seems, are happy; me, I’m old and grumpy. I can’t even stand it when they sing songs in line.

But, the Insta-Princess? She loves them. Absolutely adores them. Of course, I’m sure it doesn’t hurt her feelings any that the men love women—any women, but especially the pretty ones—and are immediately solicitous when the girls show up.

“May I buy you a soda?”

“Maybe some popcorn?”

“How about a car?”

“Please look at me. I’m lonely.”

So, why am I going to a Buffy sing-a-long with the Insta-Princess this Friday?

Because, alas, I’m also a fan. And, stupid.

Sigh.

My lovely wife is a fan of Dad Gone Mad, the blog of a gentleman who is, unsurprisingly, a dad, and a little surprisingly, not quite mad. He should be, I imagine, because based on the cartoon characters decorating his site, he has two kids. (Both with the same size and color of eyes. Freaky.) One’s enough, and I haven’t even had mine yet.

But, this blog shall not turn into a cheaper version of the insane daddums. It shall not be solely about the kid because the kid shall not rule my life! My wife’s life, on the other hand…

My poor widdle sweetums, struck ill each day as the cells divide, the cord grows, and the DNA dances its genetic jig as it tries to figure out whether the hair color will be dark brown (my wife’s) or a gorgeous red (mine–what little is left). We redheads rock, in case you doubted. Conspiracy nuts blather on about secret cabals of religious organizations, government powerhouses and, one time, a guy named Fred from down the street (that sumbitch was scary), but they do so without knowing that the true power, the tastiest moxie, the proper Fredness, belongs to redheads, whether the Devil’s own auburn or an angelic strawberry-blonde.

So, lil’ kiddo, I bet you’re a redhead. Ruling your mom’s life, telling her through mild nausea and energy-sapping biological e-missives that she is not to touch vegetables—those are the hallmarks of real power. I solute you, kiddo, even if your mom is looking, right now, rather anxiously at a book of exorcism.

Amen.

P.S.: You conniving, devious fetus! Curses! This entry was about you, after all. Damnable wily redhead…

So, it looks like I’m gonna be a Papa. And, based on the image above, it looks as if I’m going to be the proud father of a healthy baby prawn. With, if you look closely enough, a really long… umbilical cord. (Please. If I didn’t make a puerile joke like that, someone would have. At least, that’s my defense.)

We’re gonna have a kid, and by “we,” I mean my wife—who seems steadfastly intent on doing it all by herself. “It’s natural,” she tells me. “It’s up to me, my stomach and an occasional craving for catsup and sauerkraut. And the gardener.”

“Hey, what’s he got to do with this?” I was suspicious. I’m quick like that.

“What? Oh, nothing.” She patted her belly. “Isn’t that right my little ootchie-kootchie-TruGreen Chemlawn?”

My part is done. (Not my “part” part—he’s fine. But I appreciate your concern, and so does Lord Von Hugenstein.) There’s little else for me to do, but being an emotional sort, I thought I’d write a letter to our future polka-dot; kind of a fatherly gesture, what with this being my first kid I ever knew about. So, here goes…

Dear Prawn,

I can’t say how good of a father I’ll be, but I hope when you’re on death row and they ask you how you came to this end–what caused you to be this way–I hope, my shrimp-like dickens, that you’ll look them straight in the eye and proudly blame it on yer Ma.

But before we even get to that point, I hope, boy or girl (we don’t know yet; we just hope you don’t turn out to be a puppy or a kitten… which, honestly, would make an excellent YouTube video), to teach you the important lessons in life:

• Michael Bay should never direct another movie again. I mean, Jesus!, who gives Optimus Prime lips?

• Cereal is only really cool when you can dig your hand deep down inside the plastic bag, get the rainbow-colored bits of artery-clogging crisp mini-donuts grimey with whatever childhood funk you’ve got growing on your skin, and grasp the cheap, plastic toy that someone (your Ma) will eventually force you to throw out because it’ll “draw bugs”. But for those few minutes when you’ve run off with your treasure and secreted it away somewhere in that toy-infested pit of perdition you call a room, it’ll be grand. Simply grand. Because, honestly? You only buy the cereal for the toy.
  

• If you’re a girl, stop it with the pink. Seriously. It’s just a bad color. Oh, and avoid pastels if you can.

• If you’re a boy, see the note to the girl.
  

• You can cry all you want; you can wail and gnash your teeth (when you have them), but no matter how sincere you are in your displeasure; no matter how passionately you point out how insanely dumb it is, Spike will continue to have a chip in his head for FOUR friggin’ seasons. They’ll make him bland and uninteresting; they’ll vacuum out his cool and replace it with a weird, frothy mixture of stalker and puppy love. Mourn for Buffy, my faithful off-spring, shed a tear for our favorite vampire slayer.
  

• Daddy’s wang really isn’t called “Lord Von Hugenstein”. It’s “Cadbury”. But that’s a family secret, so don’t tell anyone.

Take these lessons to heart, my little tadpole cast-off. This is wisdom I wish had been passed along to me when I was your age.

Love,

Pa