I Don’t Have A Few Brats Quick, My Beer Drinking Is Going
There had been the DWI’s, the drunken and disorderly charges,
and the dabbling with AA, but never before has my habitual beer
drinking been as threatened as when I recently realized that in
order to sustain my daily intake, I would soon require children.
Maybe some might think this is a peculiar, if not a selfish way
to approach the subject of childbearing, but my old man didn’t
have a problem with it; and as far as I could tell, he managed
to drink pretty much 24-hours a day when I was a needy child,
so the system must work.
I didn’t get the idea from my old man. Actually, it was
more of a realization than an idea, one of those things that hit
you when you’re drinking beer, lots of beer, every day into
I’ve always chosen my companions carefully. I enjoy folks
who have a sense of humor, who are witty, who are open-minded,
who are kind and considerate, and who have a history of alcoholism
in their families. Strangely, most of these people drink loads
of beer, even though I don’t know the connection between
having a sense of humor and beer consumption.
I also don’t know the connection between having a sense
of humor and underachievement or not having the ability to sustain
meaningful, long-term relationships. But with us it had always
been there…until something changed—all my friends
had gotten married.
Luckily all the spouses (except for Tim’s tea-totaling
monster-breasted Russian mail-order bride Marketa) in question
fit the mold of a good friend: great sense of humor, witty, kind,
with a history of alcoholism in the family. Luckily, we could
still hang out and have fun together (excluding those times when
Tim shows the waitress his dick and gets us kicked out of yet
another bar). And none of them seemed to mind that I was still
single and fancy-free. They never even harassed me by arranging
blind dates with their boring colleagues—and not because
I haven’t had a meaningful relationship since 1979 while
in the sixth grade, but because they know I haven’t had
a meaningful relationship since 1979 while in the sixth grade.
And everything had been just dandy—until four years ago,
when they all started to have unprotected sex.
I don’t know what is the connection between marriage and
unsafe sex, but there is one. After decades of safely avoiding
unplanned pregnancies, after decades of learning about the pill,
sponges, rubbers, diaphragms, and IUDs, my friends somehow got
hit over the heads with dummy sticks and seemed to have thrown
that hard-earned education out the window like bathwater—but
they managed to grab the baby before it, too, was thrown out with
that proverbial fluid.
It had not bothered me—their marriages or children or my
singleness—until the other night when we were partying at
Mike and Cathy’s. It was there that I realized my friends
had collectively created a beer drinking paradise by having children,
and I understood that if I didn’t act soon, I would be left
standing at the gates of this paradise without a key.
There was Tim and Marketa’s little tyke Vlad teetering
back from the fridge with a cold Budweiser, Mary and Jake’s
little daughter inexpertly mixing her first Jack Daniels and coke
for her parents, and Mike and Cathy’s son David crawling
upstairs to look for his father’s pack of Marlboros. But
this excellent service wasn’t the only perk. Since there
is a troop of children, as soon as David returns with the cigarettes
and then wants to bother his father by sitting on his lap, dad
convinces him to find Vlad and show him some new toy. And off
his lap the tot jumps—it’s as if Mike didn’t
even have a child! And if Mary and Jake want to go on a binge
over the weekend, they dump the kid off at Tim and Marketa’s.
(Luckily, for Tim, if he wants to go on a binge, he just leaves
because Marketa doesn’t drink, and she’s as submissive
as a carrot.)
Sitting there single, childless, and with no prospects made me
realize how problematic not having children as soon as possible
could be. What if I had a child in 50 years? None of my friends’
children would play with it. It would be stuck on my lap and always
be knocking over my beer, and I’d constantly be burning
its tender little scalp with my cigarette or dumping ash into
its eyes. Of course if I thought there’d be a wife around
to tend the little whelp, I’d pawn the kid off on her, but
I’m sure by the time she returned from the hospital we’d
have a good reason to get divorced. And since I can only imagine
how mentally unstable someone would have to be to marry me, I’d
probably get stuck with the kid, since the court would never give
a mother that messed up custody of another living being.
Well, after a long and careful deliberation, I knew there was
only one thing for me to do—get a wife and have some kids
quick. Luckily for me, Tim knows of a great little organization
that matches young Russian women with American males based on
their preference of getting a visa and your preference of huge
tits. Sure, little Robert or Suzy might be a few years younger
than the rest of our clan, but older kids always need someone
to pick on, so I can be rest assured my son or daughters will
be kept entertained for extended periods of time—away from
me and my beer!