Double Digit Daddy

I am a Property Manager of a large complex in New York City and during the course of my day, I interact with an array of people, complete and utter characters! From my staff,  to the tenants, vendors, tenants of the commercial spaces, city officials, etc - my days are never boring and I have become convinced with each passing day, that people are generally half-crazed and grasping onto the cliff called sanity for dear life. Some days I am forced to put on my Invisibility Cloak, which consists of closing my office door, pumping up the volume on the Ipod, and acting as if I am not present in order to ignore all the ridiculousness. My actual cloak is currently on back order. Some days I literally just don't have the strength and cannot be bothered. But today I had my door opened and my assistant was having a discussion with a gentleman that does business for our property on a regular basis. It turns out that congratulations were in order, this person, who we will call Papa Bear, was going to be father again - for the eleventh time! Eleventh time! Eleven children?! Who has eleven children in the 21st Century? I mean, do we plan on providing workers to the local farm? What am I talking about this is MANHATTAN and everyone believes that food grows in grocery stores! There are no such things as farms and, therefore, no need for a tribes worth of children. I mean, there are no laws against this? Dude, I know what we pay you, you cannot possibly afford to raise eleven children. It was in this moment that I thought of the one great gift of being a homo that my father never bitched about - not knocking up any oversexed Britney Spears wannabe in High School. Anyway, I digress. Clearly, the generosity and compassion of the great state of New York will be contributing to the raising of the village this man has created, and by generosity and compassion of New York - I mean my hard earned goddamn tax dollars! Contrary to what Mitt Romney may believe, I am part of the 53% of voters who pay Income Tax. Despite this, I still wouldn't vote for him even if I knew I were going to be punished by being forced to shove my hand in a bee house for a week. Anyway, while I sometimes like to hide from ridiculousness, this was too good for me to pass up. To protect the names of the innocent, and the guilty, we will do some name changing at this time. Our father of eleven, and New York's very own Johnny Appleseed, will be called PAPA BEAR. My poor unassuming assistant, who is always looking to help her fellow man - even if the real solution in this case is clearly castration, will aptly be called ASSISTANT. And I, the one who could not help but insert himself into madness, will be called POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL. I guess this will be my online version of Masterpiece Theatre...

Scene One: A windowless office (the powers that be should really do something about that). POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL should probably be reviewing some sort of financial statement, but is instead  thinking about how he wishes he could sing like Adele, at least in the shower. He'd settle for a good shower singing voice. POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL overhears that the stork has arrived, once more, for PAPA BEAR and his Baby Mama.

ASSISTANT: Papa Bear! She's pregnant? Another woman?!

PAPA BEAR: I don't even know how this happened!

(POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL pops up like a Meerkat - I mean, honestly, men and women are STILL using the "I don't know how this happened shtick?

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: Papa Bear, you're having another kid?

(ASSISTANT AND PAPA BEAR ENTER POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL's doorway)

PAPA BEAR: (Smiles) I know, right. Can you believe it?

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: No, no. I can't. Well, I don't know whether to say congratulations or...well, yes. I don't know what to say. 

ASSISTANT: Papa Bear, you need to have a vasectomy. A number of my family members have had vasectomies. 

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: Yeah, that sounds like a good idea!

PAPA BEAR: (Grimaces) Yuck! I don't want them shortening my dick.

(Dumbfounded Silence)

ASSISTANT: That's not how that works. Do you need some brochures? I can get you some brochures?

(Uncomfortable Silence)

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: Yes, Papa Bear, that's not how that procedure works.

PAPA BEAR: Well I don't want anyone cutting off my nuts or nothin'.

ASSISTANT: Papa Bear you sound so uneducated!

PAPA BEAR: What? I don't!

POOR UNFORTUNATE SOUL: This is too much. They like clip...they cut...they clip the little chord. Ugh, this isn't what you think. You should look into this, for your sake (and the state!). 

ASSISTANT: (Flustered) Papa Bear, I am going to get you some brochures, yes I am, because this is ridiculous! I cannot be bothered - I'm going back to my desk.

PAPA BEAR: It's not like all the eleven weren't planned...just some.

Missed The Memo

And as ASSISTANT and PAPA BEAR left, so concluded our low down dirty shame version of Masterpiece Theatre. After having watched that display, I was more convinced then ever that permits and licensing should be required for parents to be and maybe sterilization of certain segments of the populace, against their will, was not so bad after all. There also should be some testing with questions like how many kids do you already have? If more than, I don't know - SIX, a giant pair of scissors should come out and castrate the person - immediately - for even thinking of fertilizing more eggs! What is the matter with people?! I say this all in jest while remaining in complete shock that this man has procreated for the eleventh time. Of course, the real moral of the story is that I should keep my office door closed at all times and pump up Adele to the highest decibel possible, at which point my ears can suffer through the pain of a wailing songstress as opposed to the pain of listening to stupidity. For the record, I love listening to Adele's wailing. I'm just majorly jealous that I don't get paid mega bucks to do that. 

11 Women Never Heard Of It 

WORD OF THE DAY: VASECTOMY!