My wife emerges from the bathroom, like she does several times a day and looks me right in the eye with a stare so serious it had me sweating like Nixon. At that point she holds it up. It. You know, that. The thing. The stick that says life is about to get more interesting.
“Great Ceasar’s Ghost!”, I yell as I stand to my feet. “Verily I say, are thine fine wench sown with thy oats?”
She takes a step closer, and lets her hair down. In one swift motion she holds the test…the symbol of our mutual fertility, in the air like an ancient offering. “Yes, thine husband of my youth…verily thou art once again master of my domain!”.
At once, I clothe myself in my regimental Scottish kilt and tear my shirt off, thus dressing for war as my fair maiden looks on in approval.
I then promptly step onto the front step of my suburban home. I begin with a deep, roar of manhood as I step onto the front lawn:
“Hear me Oh suburbia! Once again have I sown the seeds of your discord! My empire will again expand and you will fear my offspring as one fears a mighty army. Thine fair maidens be aware, my manhood is again proven and thouest do well not to stare too directly at thine self”.
My proclamation is cut short by Carter, the kid who delivers my flyers. “Um, do you want your flyers today, sir?”. The mailman also is skipping my house, and two old ladies move like frightened cheetahs past my front sidewalk.
But now they know. Oh yes, they know.
Yes, once again I have proven to the world and anybody that cares ( last count: 0 ) that all systems are still a go. I am still a well maintained, high performance machine of Grade-A fertility.
This baby, number 4, will be our last. Now make no mistake, I absolutely love my kids and can’t imagine life without them. My son will probably be the first man on Mars, my middle daughter an award winning author, and the youngest girl a ninja assassin for hire.
But I’m not getting any younger, and the mini-van will have now reached capacity.
Which got me thinking. What do I need these “things” for anymore? Aside from the required testosterone to maintain my exponential levels of manliness, the “boys” now are kind of just getting in the way. Can I get them moved? Bronzed perhaps?
I never liked boxers, so now I can go back to tighty-whities full time. I don’t care if it makes my sperm count less than 1% milk! May every last one of you little trouble-makers roast your way to oblivion in my Fruit of the Loom cauldron!
Options for birth control change drastically now too. Statistics show that 85% of men would rather be thrown naked from a plane without a parachute into shark infested waters than have a vasectomy. I find that as horrifying as it is totally believable.
Another option is to watch a Twilight movie, and watch my manhood shrivel up into raisins.
Or I could just not touch my wife until menopause. With 4 kids running around, that will probably be the most effective means yet!
© 2010 – 2014, John Paul Parrot. All rights reserved.