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.