YOU SHOULD’VE ASKED YOUR MOTHER

From the journal of Mike Watkins, 40, of Akron, OH:

 

July 27^th

Not a good day.  Work was brutal.  Just wanted to come home and relax.  I kicked off my shoes, cracked open a cold one, and sat in the living room with the laptop to check out eBay.  Timmy came in a few minutes later holding a couple of books and asked me how my day was.  For a 10-year-old, the kid has some decent manners.  Thank God for his mother.  I told him I was tired but what can I do for him?

 

“I need some help on the birds and the bees,” he said.

 

Jesus…like I needed to deal with this now?  I placed my laptop aside, took a long sip of beer, and motioned for Timmy to sit beside me.  “I knew this would come up sooner or later,” I sighed.  “I guess I was hoping for later.”  It’s funny.  I knew I’d have to have this chat with the boy in the near future, but I never really prepared myself for it.  I tried to think back when my dad gave me the “Birds and the Bees” talk.  He had been sweating bullets.  I now realized that my armpits were a bit damp.

 

“Well, Timmy,” I began.  “When a boy starts to become a man, his brain begins a southward migration and he begins to see girls as more than just kind, caring friends.  Years later, a man and a woman will meet, fall in love, sometimes they’ll get married, and they become husband and wife.”

 

I took another sip of beer.  “One day they decide they want to have children so they can have a tax write-off.  So the husband gets his wife all liquored up and he sticks his ding-ding in the woman’s yum-yum.  That part is pretty sweet.  For a second there it feels like your ding-ding is about to go all M-80 like but what it’s doing is shooting this tapioca-like stuff called semen into the woman’s yum-yum.  You’ll know what semen is like in a couple years when you start spanking your ding-ding on a daily basis.  And don’t worry…you won’t go blind.  Trust your old man on that one.”

 

“So this semen is filled with sperm which look like tadpoles, and the sperm swim inside the woman’s body until they reach an egg.  The egg becomes fertilized, turns into a baby, and after nine months of growing in the woman’s belly, the baby shoots out of the yum-yum and lo and behold you become a father and you begin to age dramatically.”

 

Timmy looked horrified.

 

“It’s not that bad,” I said after I downed my beer.  “When you stick your ding-ding into the yum-yum, it’s called sex.  Sex can be a lot of fun…well…until you get married.  When I was in college I used to have sex all the time.  Could barely keep my ding-ding in my pants!  Nearly had to put a leash on that bad boy!  Then I met your mother and I thought it was a brilliant idea to stop having sex with a dozen women and to start having sex with one woman.  For the rest of my life.  That…same…one…woman.  Don’t ask me.  Massive brainwashing of the male species, I suppose.  But I used to tenderize the shit out of your mother’s yum-yum until you came along.  Then she became more interested in Pampered Chef and Tastefully Simple parties and less interested in sex.”

 

Timmy now looked horrified and confused.

 

“If that happens, you need to try to keep your love life stimulating!  Your mother just said to me last month, ‘Why don’t you try to spice up things a bit?’  So that Friday night while you were at a sleepover, I picked up this Mexican hooker………what?  She was over 18!  At least I think she was.  It was hard to understand her……with the duct tape covering her mouth.  Your mother walked into the bedroom and nearly freaked out.  ‘What are you doing?’ she cried.  ‘You know I don’t like Mexican!!!’  So I dropped her off and picked up a Chinese girl.  Everything went okay except an hour later it felt like we hadn’t had any sex at all so I was off again roaming the streets, looking for a pick-up, hoping none of the hookers were undercover cops.”

 

Timmy looked pale as a ghost.  He stood up, dropped his books, and ran out of the room, screaming.  Confused, I picked up his two books.  Birds of North America and Our Friend the Honeybee.  “Aw, shit,” I muttered.  “Hey!” I yelled after my traumatized son.  “I was just kidding!  A stork…yeah, a stork… dropped you down our chimney!!!  Pinky swear!!!”