Father's Day

Father's Day is a damn blasted concoction, no doubt conjured up by some wicked paper goods profiteer, who delights in his new found fortune not caring a whit that it comes about through the torment of fathers everywhere.

Where in the good book did Jehovah state that because a man might enjoy the pleasures of the flesh and ejaculate inside the womb of a wench is he then to be persecuted for the remainder of his life with reminders of the unintended offspring of his unloading?

What an ordeal it is to hide from the many numbers of rascals and scalawags I have sired across the globe. What a cruel trick the gods played when they made something as joyous as copulation result in the tragic consequence of birth.

There are times when I wish I was impotent. When I see one of my favorite wenches balloon up and gain several sizes in grotesque weight for instance.

"Dear god woman!" I would bellow. "How you have let yourself go!"

Usually they giggle and protest. "But sir I am not fat, but pregnant."

With a snap of my fingers my servants have them removed and banished, and I quickly turn to my snifter to assuage the pain of losing my plaything.

This Father's Day contrivance brings all the negative aspects of fornicating to light and, in a cruel deviant twist, celebrates them! How utterly perverse. To think there are some fathers out there who not only acknowledge their children, but take them into their embrace, and then fail to smother them. It is so utterly ridiculous it astonishes me to no end.

The bile rises in my throat at the thought. Of course I do suffer a tinge of regret sometimes when I see that as a result of hiding from my many offspring I do miss out on a present or two. But then I remember that little fingers with little purses generally proffer only trinkets and grubby little worthless things. How reflective they are of the giver.

"Oh you drew me a picture? A mish mash of blobs and hazy shapes, replete with tapioca stains on the flimsy page itself. Why I shall have it encased in a mahogany frame at once and place it alongside my Titians and Rembrandts. Or better yet I'll launch it into the fireplace, and enjoy the seconds worth of warmth it will provide."

Must I spend my life in flight from urchins and scamps who long to cling to me simply because they emanated from the scatter shot droppings of my fevered member? Conceivably I could be responsible for millions! Let that be a lesson to gentleman everywhere. Pull out and aim well.

As to the bastard remnants of my revelry...I have given them life, let them suckle their mother's engorged teats and leave me to my business.

Olympic Fever

After throwing one of my more lax servants through the trophy case for a bit of sport one quiet afternoon, I noticed an appalling omission among my many awards and medals...not one from the Olympiad!

Of course I had scoffed mightily when I first heard that the ancient Greek Olympiad was going to be revived, for I did not want the glorious pastime of buggery to be put under the sway of bureaucrats. What does some uptight drone of an official know about a properly oiled orgy after all? Very little if you ask me by Jove!

My fury was assuaged somewhat when I heard that there would be a wide array of events, not all of which involved rectal violation, and thus I was keen to prove my worth on the field of sport, as I so often had on the field of battle.

I readied my pistols and looked forward to shooting Greek boys in olive branches, a sport I had patented some years earlier. To my distress I was informed that such a sport was impermissible, despite the Greek Islands being positively awash in Greeks, and not nearly enough shooting going on. Where were those lazy Turks? I found myself wondering that aloud many times during those placid, tranquil, boring days.

Then again the heat was rather oppressive under those clear azure skies, and with the women smelling worse than octopus in the afternoon I decided to earn my medal in an indoor sport, draughts, or checkers as the gutter folk do call them.

Dear god my manhood is seeping something rather viscous and odoriferous and I shall have to curtail this reminiscence while I have it checked. Perhaps that Greek whore wasn't a novice as she insisted she was. Hmm an untrustworthy prostitute...is there anything the Greeks haven't corrupted? First democracy and now this...I dare say I will cheer the Turk when those filthy sodomites vanquish those oily souvlaki eaters once and for all.

I will be brief. I took home but the silver in checkers, as my opponent had the audacity to cheat, by ingesting some sort of testosterone based horse stimulant. Apparently that concoction was responsible for his larger brain, and truly titanic cranium. How could I compete with such an engorged intellect?

With my pistol of course.

My rogue of an opponent was duly destroyed, but because I had his body dumped in the Aegean no autopsy could be performed and thus my accusations of perfidy could not be confirmed! Incredibly the word of a gentleman was not enough and my protests were rejected! The scoundrel's gold medal win was allowed to stand and there was even talk on bringing me up on a charge for murder. Ridiculous.

The shock of the episode soured me on the games in their entirety, and I vowed not to don my skates for the forthcoming winter Olympiad, much to the chagrin of ladies everywhere, who do so love observing me prance about on ice.