No Problem Child (Cheers to Belgium)

nobabiesRecently, Belgium made euthanasia for children legal. The rules are simple: There must be a diagnosis from an independent doctor, there must be signs of intense and endless suffering which will undeniably result in death, and with the approval of both parents, you can save your child the misery of lifelong grief. It’s a tough choice for loving parents, but what about the rest of us? Let’s be honest, folks…aren’t these rules a bit strict?

I don’t have any kids because I use condoms, and I’m pretty sure that my sperm doesn’t work anyway due to a life of fucked up choices…and honestly, I couldn’t be happier. Imagine me raising some little paranoid shit version of myself to just go out there and become incredibly mediocre. Ugh. What a waste of oxygen, high fructose corn syrup, and oil. I have no time for that. I’m busy, and babies are unnecessarily expensive, and anything that sucks up that much money should be staunchly viewed as an investment. But what if the investment goes bust?  I’m fucked! However, I’d like to think that if I did end up with a kid due to some drunken mistake in the back of Dodge Charger, that I, the co-creator of this mess, would have some god damn options. Like most business ventures, if things go sour, I want to know I can jump ship. Let’s look at the likelihoods of this theoretical nightmare, shall we?

So boom, I blow a load and nine months later an accident pops out—a screaming, needy, shitty accident. Now, due to biology, I’d probably end up all sentimental and protective for a short while, and I know I’d do the best I could to raise this blooming shithead. I mean, it’s simply good policy to get your money’s worth. However, it should be noted that I’m kind of a paranoid dick even when I don’t mean to be, so let’s engage in a little social alchemy. Combine the viewpoint of a generation who thinks they are entitled to a blowjob on command whenever the fuck they want with my dickishness and paranoia and squash that all into one little sperm and egg…chances are highly likely my kid is going to be an asshole. I don’t know how to raise a child, most people don’t, and ultimately children annoy me. Not necessarily because they themselves are annoying, but because the vast majority has shitty parents who are turning them into shitty kids. You know the kind: “Oh honey, it’s ok. You’re a winner no matter what happens.” Yeah…that’s bullshit. I can’t possibly say that to anyone because I’m a good person. I honestly don’t know what to say. In an attempt to be honest, I’d probably say something that scars the kid for life which would add me instantly and inadvertently to the “Shitty Parent List.” I want nothing to do with that list. Therefore, much like when trying to create a project in Adobe Photoshop, I NEED PRACTICE. I’m a real trial and error type of guy, ya dig? I make room for mistakes because I know people don’t usually get rich over night. Winning the lottery is virtually impossible. Things take work, and I am not ashamed to admit that my pencil needs an eraser.

Imagination time: Imagine a future where some fifteen year old version of me who’s been raised in THIS society is sitting in his room, bad poetry scrawled into the walls with razorblades, posters of the latest rebel musicians, images of whores everywhere. Angrily he sits, already having put his girlfriend through an abortion which begs the questions, “Why does this asshole get choices that I don’t? I don’t care that she’s twelve…why the fuck does he get special treatment!? And how the fuck did he pay for that abortion?” Drug dealing would be my guess! My lord…this asshole hates me! For the “love” (wink wink nudge nudge, am I right?)of my child, all my hair has fallen out, my dreams are dead, douchey small talk is all I’ve got left for anyone, and I’m still allowing his life to suckle upon the flopping stinking teets of my wallet just to keep existing. TIME TO GET REAL. This idiot isn’t going anywhere. I FUCKED UP. I NEED TO START OVER. Thanks to the options provided to me as a parent and a viable member of society, I’m in luck!

Due to my extreme intelligence, I’ve been keeping a journal for the last fifteen years, chronicling the vital knowledge I’ve imparted on this experiment, and more importantly, I’ve carefully logged exactly HOW I imparted that knowledge. Christ! This is full of mistakes and bad decisions! No wonder this shithead hates me, all gothed out with his bedroom door locked, trying to masturbate the hate away! OF COURSE! IT’S ALL RIGHT HERE!  “Honey! Warm up the sedan! We’re pulling out of this mess while our biological credit is still valid! And when we get back, lube up because we are starting over IMMEDIATELY! One way or the other, I’m going to raise a god damn rich physicist before it’s too late. I don’t care if we have to put hundreds of our kids to sleep and you end up pregnant so many times that your uterus falls out…THIS IS HAPPENING!”

One hour, a screaming asshole left behind, some champagne, and an old Austrian porno VHS tape later, my wife and I are already looking toward the future. And this time, we’re certain that we will raise a successful specimen, which is not only good for us, but it’s good for America too, and ensures that we will enjoy a cushy sweet ass retirement. Most importantly, instead of me going on TV apologizing to the world for my kid shooting all your kids, I get to go on TV and say, “That’s my son! That’s MY boy!” I love you Belgium. Keep trailblazing, friends. With one small win at a time, we’ll get there…someday.