This is all your fault, fucko.
This morning I woke up, had what felt like a seven-minute pee, made myself some coffee, coughed up a little phlegm, sat down at my desk, looked at my computer and realized - I’m ready to be a husband and father.
To just about every guy who knows me this radical epiphany will be as shocking as it is absurd. Moreover, most of my married and/or father friends have expressed envy over my freedom to, say, sleep in until noon, walk around the house in my ratty underpants, or screw any woman I want without guilt (a logical fallacy completely at odds with the reality of my ratty underpants, but never underestimate the lurid imagination of a married male). By contrast, my male, single, childless friends protect their metaphysical turf more fiercely than a Mexican drug cartel. Both groups would probably regard my newfound desire as…well, unmanly. The more I think about it, though, the more I’m thinking there could be no decision more daring or masculine than to restrict yourself to one vagina for the rest of your life whilst setting an example for the progeny that your penis and that one vagina produce.
So what accounts for this seismic shift in thinking? It’s not as though I’ve been dwelling on it, and came to a conclusion after months of serious deliberation. I wasn’t struck by lightning, I didn’t visit a hypnotist, and Goddess recently made it clear that if forced to choose between dating a hobo or me she’d have to think about it. There is no immediate, rational reason for why I should feel this way…except, perhaps, for one. That reason’s name is John. Fucking. Cusack (the “other JC” as I like to call him).
