I write this entry from the much-needed comfort of a cushioned chair. Recent events have demonstrated to me the urgency with which I must spread the word about a diabolical new form of birth control.
No, I’m not talking about the antics of children in the throes of the terrible twos putting you off having kids (though that certainly can make a more than moderate contribution to the desire to have no further children).
I’m talking about the height of the average two to three-year old.
I know, I know, this is a topic no one is comfortable talking about. Believe me, you’ll find yourself a lot more uncomfortable if we don’t get this issue out in the open.
In a good mood, they run up to you, arms extended, ready to hug, and plow into your nether regions with their bony, unyielding heads.
In a bad mood, they latch onto you and vent their frustration with head-butting. And I swear, after accidentally stumbling onto this maneuver, they immediately recognize its efficacy and file it away for future use.
Regardless of their motivation, this is a fiendishly effective way of sterilizing daddy. If not via physical damage to the wedding tackle, or making the act of procreation too painful to contemplate, then through the psychological impact of daddy realizing sex can lead to babies which can lead to more unpleasant bruising in that most cherished of regions.
Like child-rearing in general, it’s a vicious cycle. Only instead of spanning generations, it prevents further expansion of the latest generation.
And Richard Connell thought hunting other men was the most dangerous game. Clearly not a man who spent a great deal of time dodging toddlers.— And now, a word from our sponsor: me! My book, Marlowe and the Spacewoman, is out!