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Effortlessly Average

Sort of half-heartedly leading the charge into mediocrity since, oh, let's say around 1987 or so.

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Location: Roaming (additional charges may apply), Argentina

Proof that with internet access and a powerful laxative, even insipid people will blog; the place where your excellence and my mediocrity collide; where my Karma whips ass on your dogma.

Saturday, September 29, 2007

Little Boy Blue and the Man in the Moon


I used to do a lot of playing around when I was in college. I'm not sure what contributed to my limitless appeal, though. Some might say it's charm. Others, a huge shovel. Either way, I've never had a fear of meeting women. If you like me, great; if not I'll buy your drink anyway. And I won't even spit in it (unless you're that bitch Kathy).

For a two year period between my last serious relationship and when I met my wayward wife (I'm not sure what to call her right now, so that's the best I could come up with) I did an obscene amount of horizontal shuffling. Granted, not all of it was horizontal, but you get the point. Anyway, given my promiscuity, I always wondered if this day would come. Today I received a letter in the mail from a woman I used to "date" in the late '80s.

As I recall, Angie was a really fun girl: outgoing, funny, athletic, and smart. Among other things. I'd always wondered what happened to her. If memory serves she was going to law school or something. I don't know why we never took it further than we did; I mean, once you've seen each other's orgasm face, there's not much left untold, right? But we just drifted apart and eventually lost touch all together. Until today.

Today I trotted out to my mailbox, careful to avoid the fucking fire ant hills that my lawn seems to be sprouting like a teenager produces pimples. Among the credit card offers, just below Ed McMahon's promise that I may have already won $10,000,000 I saw it. The "letter."

I don't recall most of the contents because not long after the ubiquitous "I've tried to write this letter a million times" blah blah blah, there was this:

"We have a son together."

I was stunned. I still am. Another son? Damn, life is changing for me this year in ways I never thought possible. My wife has left me, my brother-slash-roommate has married a girl half his age and now they're expecting a new child, my daughter convinced me that rats make good pets, and now this: I have a second son.

My head swirled with questions. Where is he? Why didn't she tell me before now? What's his name? Does he want to see me? When can I see him? Holy shit, another son! Could he really be mine? I mean, how can I be sure? She could be just yanking my chain for child support. Although.... since I've been monogamous for 17 years, that would make the kid almost the age of majority, so if she's looking for child support now, she's one really crappy attorney, isn't she? What does he look like? Wait, maybe she included a picture.

I rummaged through the envelope and sure enough, there were pictures included. As I thumbed through them, looking for any similarity to myself, I ran across one of him and his mother that settled the boy's paternity once and for all.




Yep, he's mine. No question about it.

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