Doyle’s Contingency Plan

Why is it when people find out your wife is pregnant they make it their mission to try and freak you out. Why is it they throw useless, and disturbing facts at you about how your kid will be some deformed little demon child from hell. They of course then conclude with a rather hollow statement like; “Don’t worry, you’ll be right,” in what can only be described as a less than sincere manner.

I’ll be right?

I’ll be right will I? Will you be right when I’ve shoved my fist down that hideously fake smile, fuckface?

But I digress.

Unfortunately these ever-so-fun conversations have led me to the conclusion that procreation is simply a game of genetic Russian Roulette and, between you and me dear reader, my genes are not exactly at the forefront of evolutionary advancement.

So, as my friend Ben would probably put it, chances are I’m going to breed myself a mong. Something will be wrong with it, and I want to be prepared. Consequently I present here a list of afflictions which will result in my child being sent off for adoption.

Feel free to replace ‘adoption’ with ‘retrospective abortion’, it’s really up to you how fucked up you want to make this.

1) Hair.

Babies born with thick hair is fucked up as it is, but did you know they can come out with hair up to 10cm long? Well I do now! TEN centirmetres. What kind of screwed up wolf creature did my wife bed to birth something with that shit going on? Why not just come out with a beard and an adam’s apple, buddy? I’m not having that sort of thing going on in my house.

Long hair = adoption. Life’s cruel mate, better to learn now.

2) The cut of his/her gib.

Everyone loves to mention the terrible-twos, but I refuse to let some snotty-nosed midget ruin my weekend so you got to strike early. I’m not sure how you determine a child’s personality before it’s able to think, talk or even control it’s own bowel movements; but if I get even a whiff of attitude from the little demon-spawn, someone is going to wake up to a screaming box on their doorstep. In fact I’ll invest in a sass-meter, and if the needle reaches the red even once…

Sass = adoption. Don’t do the crime, if you can’t do the time.

3) Cross eyed.

We’re not Tasmanians. I don’t care if it can be fixed. Adoption.

4) Intelligence.

It can take up to 2 years for a baby to start talking… 2 years of having to interpret garbled rubbish and nonsensical sounds… I don’t think so champ. If you want to be a part of this family you’ll get your shit together faster than that. Employees get a 3 month probationary period at work, so it’s only fair you get the same. If they can teach dogs how to say hello, I should be able to expect at least a simple “Yes father, sir”.

No speech after 3 months = adoption. Don’t let the door hit you on the way out, mutey.

5) Race.

If ‘my’ child comes out anything but the purest of white: gone. I’m not being racist but as both myself and my wife are the kind of white Hitler dreamt of, if there’s even the slightest hint of something funky there’ll be trouble. A slight tan, a minute slant to the eye. If a lion suspects a cub is not his, he kills it. It’s just nature’s way… better to be safe then sorry.

Racial impurities = adoption… and if I find your father, he’s dead.

6) Red haired male.

Chicks with red hair are hot. Guys with red hair are abominations. I won’t be responsible that.

Ginger balls = adoption. I feel better already.

———

Well I’m exhausted. Just the thought of this kid is killing me, but typing adoption over and over, ecstasy…

Adoption. Ahh yes.

Okay, okay. One last time.

Adoption….. god it feels good.

I think I need to lie down. I’ll keep you updated on anymore rules that come to me. let me know if you have any yourself.