I'm going to make a shitty dad one day.

Regardless of this absolute certainty, people sometimes come up to me
and tell me things like "Tim, you're going to be a good father." Then
I usually irrationally freak, black out and crash through a flimsy
particle board table. Then I wake up and they say "No, no, no! I mean
one day in the distant future you'll be a good father." Then I black
out again. But this time it's because I realized that during my
initial blackout I missed "Gilmore Girls."

Anyway, people really do tell me all the time that I'd be a pretty
good parent. I'm not really sure what they base this on because I live
in an apartment that has one bar of soap total. I suppose this
compliment is mostly backhanded and basically says "Yo, Tim. You're
kinda immature, so I think you'd relate well to someone with a
preschool education... and height! Bullzing!"

Though these are startlingly accurate points, I beg to differ. In case
I haven't made my stance on babies blatantly obvious in the past, let
me refresh you by stating the fact that babies are seriously overrated
and seriously need to get over themselves. Because of this thought
process, I'd have way too much fun exploiting my own child. I mean,
sure. If I have one, I'm going to give him stuff he needs like a bag,
or whatever it is babies sleep in. But as for the rest of his life, my
child is going to go through some seriously entertaining (for me)
situations.

Like, for example, my baby will be brought up knowing one fact
completely wrong. I'll make it something fairly subtle so it'll
provide for a morbidly embarrassing moment at one point in his life.
Originally, I wanted to teach my child that blue is red and that red
is blue. But I'm sure he'd figure it out in kindergarten or first
grade. So I figured I'd misteach him some words he'd be guaranteed not
to use until he was in third or fourth grade. So I'd misteach him that
"fountain pens" are actually "urethras" and vice versa. This would
probably work better because kids tend to use those big fat pencils
until the third grade.

My child's first sentence will be "Get paw the remote," because this
will be the first of thousands of missions he will complete for me
upon learning to walk. Also, he'll call me "paw" because it's the most
antiquated term for father I could think of. Even in my child's "walk
from futon to desk then fall down" stage of development, he'll be
running remote missions for paw.

My child will receive the occasional toy from me, but will have to
wait his turn to play the PlayStation 7, or whatever it is that's out
by that time. Even then, I probably won't let him use it because kids'
hands are always full of grape jelly for some reason. I'm kinda old
school in the toy department, so I'd give him things like coloring
books. But I'd ruin his fun by giving him custom-made coloring books
that I'd have special ordered. These custom books would only contain
pictures of things like icebergs, doves, clouds, polar bears and
Republicans. This would save me money on crayons.

My son would also play baseball. But only because I hate baseball.
This way I could make it out to his games, but it would be a real
hassle. Plus I'd get kicked out of the game like other unruly fathers,
but it would be for completely oblivious reasons. While other parents
would get in trouble for yelling out things like "Are you kidding? He
was safe!" I'd yell things like "You call this a hot dog?" and "Shit,
I have a missed call!" Also, I would check my watch constantly.

When I'm a professional writer and get an amazing job at an amazing
periodical, I'll buy the best clothes from amazing designers like
Saks, Dolce & Gabbana and eBay. My son will wear uniform shirts from
Goodwill. Uniforms from rival schools.

If you know me, you'll know that I'm like 39 percent kidding. I plan
on having a good relationship with my son, but definitely will use him
for jokes. Plus I figure it equals out because there's a 50 percent
chance I'll have a daughter.

And if this is the case, I'll be the the most redonkulous specimen of
whipped softy imaginable.

©2005 Tim Landry