Most writers are born to write… they had their very first stories written before they were teenagers.  My basis for this theory solely rests on watching movies like Stand by Me and The Kite Runner, which is apparently enough evidence for me to begin an essay with.  Facts are for newspapers and sissies.  I make up theories, and making up statistics to support those theories is part of my unique brand of whatever-the-fuck-it-is-I-do.  That is now a noun… FACT.  At any rate, most writers start writing long before they’re adults with a career and a house at least.  “Writers block” for real writers means sleepless nights, anxious days staring at a typewriter or computer screen, and drunken afternoons.  Well, let’s be honest…  most writers are drunk in the afternoon, writer’s block or no… filthy fucking drunks!  Back to my point, though… If a writer isn’t writing, he’s not making money, and starving to death because you’re temporarily devoid of creativity (or lack-a-wanna) probably sucks.  When some douche bag “writer” like me gets writers block, however… Well, let’s just say I haven’t missed any fucking meals over it.  Before starting En-Whee.com,  I used to write for a friend’s site, and just as it was ending, I have to say that I breathed a tiny sigh of relief.  I mean… how many of these articles can I possibly *have* in me?  Apparently, if you add up those essays with the ones posted here?  That many.  Almost EXACTLY that many would be my guess… but I generally feel this way each week, so I guess time will tell.  Lucky for my loyal fanbase (There is actually ONE that’s not even related to me!), I am invariably humiliating myself by shitting my pants or throwing myself out of 2nd floor balconies, so I typically have new material when I really need it.  Keep in mind, though, that when I have finally run out of embarassing tales about ME… I will start to dive into the vast pool of shame that is YOUR life.  Consider it punishment for befriending the devil.

When I was a kid, we had two cats (Coconut and Kitty).  They were brother and sister, but one was an all-white Persian, and the other was a Siamese.  Nature’s fuckin’ weird, what can I tell you?  We kept our wonderful, loving companions that nature had blessed us with locked in one half of our cold, damp basement.  This is the way it always was as far as I remember, but apparently, it wasn’t always the case… but then my oldest brother developed allergies, and the cats were moved into the cellar. I guess I wasn’t old enough to have a vote, as I would have almost certainly voted against keeping my brother, but I was only four, so what can you do?  My family were dog people, and the cats were an afterthought.  I’d occasionally go down to spend some time with them… Kitty (the Siamese) would sit in your lap while you pet her, and start to claw at you… by then, it was too late.  You had let your guard down for 10 seconds, and she managed to lick a spot (about the size of your fist) on your shirt to soaking wet. Coconut’s claim to fame was the ability to shed 10 times his own weight in fur within a minute.  By the time you came back upstairs, the cats had essentially tarred and feathered you, only with cat drool and bright white hair.  When they passed away, my parents didn’t get any more cats;  they just weren’t cat people (in the way that they like cats… they may have been Cat-People…  who really knows for sure?).  I went about my life as a dog person as well, getting my own dog (Pooh Bear) in the mid-90s.  Around 2000-2001, I was dating a girl that was most certainly a cat person.  We were at a friend’s apartment, and a stray cat came up to us… we put down our bags of Wendy’s (note to Wendy’s:  feel free to send me coupons for the mention!) and our sodas and pet the cat – rabies be damned!  Then, the cat walked over to my girlfriend’s drink, lifted up his paw, and kicked it over.  He then walked over to me and purred. I was taking this fucking cat home!  After choosing a name (my girlfriend refused to let me call him “Woofles” or “Fido”, so he ended up with “Loki”) that suited him, he settled in and won my affection (which I’m told isn’t really that much of a prize).  A month went by, and he was the best behaved animal you could ever hoped for.  Then, one day, he had enough of the charade and shit outside of the litter box.  Not in another room, mind you… right next to the fucking box.  I changed the litter.  He shit next to the box.  I bought a self-cleaning litter tray… he shit next to the box.  Granted… sometimes he mixes it up and shits just outside of the room that the litter box is in… little trails leading to the litter box, like Hansel and Gretel, only with feces. Once in a great while, he’ll even shit IN the box.    I guess he knows what “euthanasia” means, and what that cold, unfeeling look in Daddy’s eye means.  Recently, I bought one of those big plastic bins that you use to mix concrete and used that as a litter box (he’s a very long cat)… and to my surprise it worked!  For about a month… then, he shit next to the box.  Yet, if I stapled his feet inside of the litter tray, I’d be the asshole.

For Valentine’s Day (I forget which one), my girlfriend bought me the best card I’ve ever received in my life.  It simply said “Thank you for not putting any babies in me”.  Yes, folks… we have decided to go baby-less for the rest of our lives.  I have a full head of hair, and my girlfriend (now thirty years old) still gets carded almost every time we’re in a liquor store, bar, or restaurant.  I doubt highly that these things are coincidences… not having kids keeps you young at heart… Having kids makes you act like a 6-year-old. Most of our friends are now churning out these mewling human maggots now, and one-by-one, I cross people off a a shrinking list of people I can maintain an adult conversation with.  A typical phone call to one of these friends starts out talking about video games or movies, and very quickly descends into what cute fucking thing their leeches did today.  I know this is going to come as a shock to you all… but your kid?  It’s not fucking special.  I know you think that your kid is a genius, but statistically speaking, I find it very hard to believe that every one of my friends has a kid that’s “way beyond where normal kids are at their age”.  Your kid is shitting it’s pants just like the other drooling monstrosities in the park… he is not formulating the cure for cancer.  Oh… and the next time you’re in the park, take a look at the kids around you.  THAT’S what your kid looks like.  I know you think your kid is beautiful, but every parent thinks their kid is beautiful… and most of them are wrong.  So, to answer your question (the one you ask everyone that sees your bundle of dingo food):  No.  Your baby is not “precious”.  Your kid’s an asshole, and you’re an asshole for not seeing it.

The biggest surprise to me was how badly all of my friends try to recruit us.  YOU chose to have a baby, fuck-face… leave my girlfriend’s va-jay-jay OUT of this!  When I go to bed, do you know how often I wake up during the night?  ZERO times!  Guess how many times I’m getting my face pissed in while changing diapers?  ZERO times a year!  Currently, I have three cats and a dog, and they’re too much work… keep in mind that three of them piss and shit in a designated area without supervision (so long as you count the floor next to the litter box as a designated area).  The worst sales pitch I’ve heard though, is the one where my friend will tell me how they didn’t want kids, either… but then their child was born, and they would never look back… Meanwhile, they do nothing but complain about how tired they are, and how they can’t go anywhere or do anything anymore.  I think I’ll take my chances with not knowing, thank you very much… ignorance is bliss.