Let me start out by saying how jealous I am of the entire female population as a whole. I try and play the role of matchmaker/pimp on this site from time to time, with, if you’ll allow me a little modest back patting, very favorable results. I mean, Who could forget
train wreak number 1? This guy? Or, OH MY GOD PLEASE NO MORE! This gem. What I’m wondering is, where is my Cupid? My little bewinged arrow-shooting seraphim? I don’t have one, and that gives me a case of the sads. I guess this is one of those instances where I’m going to have to ‘pay it forward’. (Haley Joel Osment 1988-2012. Never forget) But I’ll be honest, I’m not big on charity. So somebody better set me up with a fine piece of ghetto meat soon, or I’m gonna bring the whole internet down. And that is not a threat, it’s a promise. But anyway, here he is, your canidate for Baby Daddy, March 10, 2010.
“I thought I told you never to call me here.” Oh dear, I am not even possessed of the proper hormones, and my heart is aflutter. Did any of you ladies notice the fake Aussie accent he tried to affect when he said his name? That smacks of class. He dropped that act, because between you and him, there can be no facades, no secrets. Just your heart and his. As long as you’re an Aquarian. The man can talk to plants, for fuck’s sake.
But in all seriousness, this was like the late eighties, early nineties. Men were trying to be deep, and this airheaded Winger reject probably got more big-haired poo-nan (Sir Codpiece, of the Village of Good Taste) than he deserved. As a matter of fact, are there any of you out there reading this who don’t know who your father is? Could be Dave here, just sayin’. And if that’s the case, I’ll ask you to put that keyboard down; it’s not edible.