Although I love and revere women for their role as the life givers of the human race, I in no way envy or desire that ability. Case and point: that new mother who has been all over the news for giving birth to octuplets; that's eight babies for those of you out there who can't remember your greek roots. Eight...to help put that in perspective, imagine one kid, then multiply it by eight. The best part was that they were only expecting seven kids. I guess that eighth one possesses some sort of heretofore unknown cloaking technology. That, or the fact that there was just a massive ball of babies rolling around in there. The mean weight for each infant was around three pounds, meaning that this chick walked around with 24 prenatal pounds. Try and eat 96 quater pounders some time and see if you can walk around. I'll bet you an all expense paid trip to Tasmania if you can do it.
One new mother, plus eight babies, minus one usable vagina equals one new happy family. That is one cooter that will never be the same again; like trying to take off a shirt by pulling it down over your shoulders...eight times. Watching those tykes shoot out of there is enough to bring back 'Nam flashbacks. Did the OBGYN have a catcher's mit? Some kind of big basket to catch them? A bullseye painted on the wall? If the nurse missed one, did she have to pay $3.00 for another eight chances? Fuck that.
Wait...on second thought, no. Don't fuck that. This story should be shared with every teenager who is on the cusp of discovering that if you rub a certain part of your body, it feels really good, and it's even better when someone you think is pretty does it for you. That's right: I'm talking about your feet. Teenage pregnancy would not even be an issue if kids were aware of this kind of stuff.
"Hi Suzy. So you like to have sex with your angry little boyfriend who wears black all the time, drinks coffee, and writes 'poetry'? It makes you feel good? Loved? Like you're a grown woman? Well just know that if you have sex, you could end up pregnant, and not just with one baby. Nope, not two...not three...keep going...not yet...you're not even close yet. The answer is eight. Do you want eight babies? You don't even have eight friends. And oh yeah: your vagina will turn into a giant deflated inner tube" Ok, that last bit may have been a bit harsh, but you gotta be with kids these days or they won't listen.
The heads of our industry need to invent some new form of contraception that ensures the accidental preganancy of only one baby is guarenteed. When you consider the possibility of eight, one seems like a favorable outcome; an acceptable margin of error. Before you get down to business for a bit of the ol' slap and tickle, make sure you put on your Gross Infant Limiter. That's gross, not net, because you never know the limits of your doctor's hand-eye coordination.
Eight babies! Any more than that and they'd be Mormons.
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