Okay, so I haven't even found anyone I want to have a kid with, but it's good to think these things through beforehand, right?
I’m just saying, what if?
Let’s say for instance that I have the kid…
No, not right now.
I don’t know what made me think of this. Maybe I was flipping channels and happened past one of those shows?
The ones where dumb and trashy girls–the ones who used to be relegated to an hour on Maury Povich or Jerry Springer and who now get multiple seasons of coverage–the shows where they’re in their mid-teens and surprised that it’s, you know, hard to be a teenage mother. Like, they’re surprised that they can’t cheer when they’re eight months gone or go to Daytona Beach with their creepy boyfriend whenever they want, now that they’re responsible–quote unquote responsible–for the life and well-being of an infant.
Okay, maybe I have been watching that show. Like, a lot. And so maybe that’s where it’s coming from. And plus, you know, twenty-eight. Tick-tock.
Is that early? I mean, my mom had me at twenty-five, and people thought she was barren until she popped me out.
Yes, she was from a farming community in southern Oklahoma, but still.
So, this is the one that snapped me out of being almost asleep the other night. Say for instance that my baby–a girl, it was a girl–is smart and beautiful and all of that, and but she hits about thirty pounds, three feet tall or so, and she just quits growing? Like, she’s five, and still three feet tall, and then she’s a freshman in high school and people are putting her in lockers–she’s so sweet and giving that she doesn’t mind, and they’re not cruel about it, particularly, and then she’s the valedictorian of her high school class and everyone’s craning their neck to see her and I’ve had to specially customize her graduation robes and her hat–her… mortarboard? Is that what it’s called?–just about swallows her whole head, and they have to–the custodian of the school or whomever–build a special laddered stand for her to be able to address the crowd from the podium, and then–this is a stretch, I know–but like she’s very intelligent and beautiful and it just stands to reason that Verne Troyer comes to learn of her and woos and then marries her. I mean, Verne Troyer…
Verne Troyer? He’s the guy from those Austin Powers movies. He played Mini-Me?
You’re shitting me.
Okay, even if you haven’t seen any of the Austin Powers movies, you still know who he is. You have to.
Fine. He’s a midget. A little person? Dwarf? I’m not sure what’s medically or scientifically correct, and what’s PC, or what, but he’s short. Really short. And he’s older than I am by a good bit. Twelve, fifteen years at least.
I just don’t know if I could handle having a son-in-law that was older than me. And, you know, short. Like, that short.
Not that I have anything against those people.
Those people. Right. Shit.
Not my first choice for son-in-law.
