Never in a million years did I dream that the cheap tactic I employed in my previous post would work. I claimed that I wasn't going to blog again until Common Shithead did, and I'll be honest with you--I thought that would free up my calendar into the next millennium. No way did I think that lazy oaf would drag himself away from his well-worn stack of kiddie porn and actually crap out a blog post. But he did, and so now it's incumbent upon me to do the same. Once again, that sack of fecal matter has screwed me over. Truth is, I didn't want to write anything. I'm in the final stages of that massive curse that is pregnancy, and all I feel like doing these days is laying uncomfortably on the couch shaking my fist at the sky and cursing God's name. Now I have to unclench my fist and write a blog post.
And to be honest, there's not much to talk about except pregnancy itself--which would bore the pants off of you. And the very last thing I want to imagine is any of you pants-less. You look bad enough with pants; I can only assume that without pants you look like an aging walrus with a bad skin condition. So I will avoid going into the specifics of pregnancy except to say this: Those squealing, airheaded wanna-be supermommies who gush enthusiastically about how beautiful and amazing pregnancy is, and repeatedly insist, "Oh, I loved being pregnant!" are lying whores who should be choked to death with a fistful of gigantic maternity panties. Pregnancy is like sex with Dyckerson: Even at its very best it's a fucking horror show, and the best you can hope for is that it passes by as quickly as possible so you can take a scalding hot shower and try to get back to your normal life, and try to drink enough to forget about the misery you've just endured.
Speaking of getting back to normal life, that's what's been on my mind lately. What will my life be like with not one but two children of Satan to chase after? Not wanting to put my kids in daycare causes a real dilemma--namely, it means I'll have to raise them, which doesn't exactly sound like a party for me, and can't be much good for them, either. However, if I were filthy rich instead of just filthy, I could hire a team of Nicaraguan nannies to raise them while I sunbathe by the pool and snort coke off the poolboy's ripped abs. The question is: How do I get rich in a matter of months?
The more unimaginative among you will suggest things like selling drugs or turning tricks--don't bother. I've tried those, and they're not as lucrative as movies and TV would lead you to believe. What I need are good, original suggestions that could actually work. Otherwise I'll have to fall back on Plan G, which involves beating up little old ladies and stealing their jewelry to pawn--which is fairly easy, sometimes fruitful work, but begs the question of where to leave the kids while I'm doing the beating. Even on "Take Your Daughter To Work Day" you can't bring the kiddies along when you know you might have to slice off a few ring fingers with a switchblade.
So put on your thinking caps--and for Christ's sake, your pants--and come up with some suggestions for how I could very quickly get shamefully rich so that I can hire some immigrants to love my children while I drink my liver into a hard, cold stone.