A Letter to My Unborn Child

Dear sir or madam,

So you’re my kid, huh?  As I write this I am currently safe in the knowledge that I have never impregnated anyone that I’m aware of, and have no pressing interest in this activity anytime in the near future (impregnating, I mean, not the activity – er, well, you know what I mean, I hope).  If you are reading this I assume that you do, in fact, exist, and therefore I must have knocked someone up and some court must have determined after a no doubt exhaustive legal battle that you are a product of my own drunken doing.  So, hello.

I’m sure by this point that you are aware what a great guy I am, so I’m not about to remind you with a detailed breakdown and comprehensive history of my excellence.  Let’s just say I’m awesome and leave it at that.  The purpose of writing this letter to you, my supposed progeny, is to pass down some ideas direct from the horse’s mouth, as I may be old, broken-down, senile, and incontinent by the time you exist.  On the other hand, if you’re going around referring to your old man as a horse, you’ll be feeling the back of my senile hand, punk!

The most important piece of advice I can pass along is this:  Never use an ATM where you have to pay a fee.  You’re just flushing money down the toilet there, kid.  Who are you, Bill Gates?  Rockefeller?  Shiloh Pitt-Jolie?  Given that half of your genes come from me, you only have at best a 50% chance at being any sort of success in this life, so you better save every goddamn nickel and dime you come across, cause it’s a mighty short trip from the top of the heap to all-encompassing, fetid squalor (look at a map if you don’t believe me.  A topographical map.  God, I hope you speak English.  This won’t translate for shit).

Also, if it’s not too late and you aren’t working in a strip mine/strip club (depending on your equipment), I strongly urge you to pursue a career in a sensible field, free of artistic, zoological, or eleemosynary elements.  Be happy, yeah, fine, but you’ll find if you have money to fall back on, your happiness will be somewhat more possible and your free time spent with more hair not pulled out in frustration.  This is important, as the overall status of your follicle future is a large question mark running directly along your hairline.  Cling to the stray strands on top of your head like a psychotic wigmaker.  That’s another gem you can tattoo on your brain.  On the other hand, don’t let the old man see you’ve gone off and inked up your skin, or it’ll be a thorough lashing for you!

As you grow older, you will likely to be tempted to pair off with someone for marriage, or at least for duets on karaoke night.  Here’s a word to the wise (and I’m sorry to insult you by assuming you’re wise if you are, in fact, a hockey fan) – find someone with a strong back, and with strong mutual funds in the old portfolio.  If they have a strong back, you’ll never be at a loss when needing to carry a couch, and if they’ve got strong mutual funds, you’ll never be at a loss when needing to post bail.  If they are attractive or kind or intelligent, it can be considered at best a bonus, and at worse something to be suspicious of.  Hopefully you’re not too attractive or intelligent, but again, half your genes were processed through the muck of yours truly, so…

Tell you what, offspring, I’ll do my level best in the coming years to ensure that you never exist, and you keep in mind that I will require near constant care above the age of 55.  I plan to retire young and in style, not unlike a king, and what are children for if not to be servants?  If that statement alone doesn’t prove to you how horrifically unfit I would be as a parent, then you deserve to be my child.  So as much as I hope I never get to meet you, you should probably pray for it even more.  Get down on your imaginary-knees and thank your imaginary-God (and you better believe in the imaginary-Jesus!) that you won’t be coming into existence, because if you do, well, imaginary-God help you.

Yours never, in perpetuity,

Your respected father