Human life can be described as a series of narrow escapes. From the first seconds of conception, the sperm that survived the biological and anatomical gauntlet to fertilize the ovum experienced multiple narrow escapes. In its journey, to the fallopian tubes, that single haploid cell had to outlast the mother's natural defenses while using every ounce of energy contained within its tadpole-like tail to complete it's soul purpose, to begin the biochemical chain reaction that will result in a brand-new human being. The narrow escapes continue at fertilization as cells divide, the uterus quickens, and other natural processes play out. The end of this process is yet another narrow escape as the infant experiences its skull being compressed so that it can passthrough the birth canal and be expelled into the bright world through a 10 centimeter opening. The mother faces her own narrow escape as giving birth could lead to catastrophic hemorrhaging, potential organ failure, and a level of physical stress on multiple biological processes which could lead to death. Life is full of narrow escapes, but not all of them feel like the climax one expects to experience during a James Bond or Indiana Jones movie, some are slow burns where years may pass before we know if the escape was made. My narrow escape could be considered a slow burn to its conclusion.

I came into the world after experiencing alcohol, illicit drug, and nicotine exposure. I appeared to be a healthy newborn possessing all ten fingers and toes, a strong heart beat, and lungs which wailed in fear and anger as I entered the world. The narrow escape had begun while in the womb, but on August 1, 1974, no one know about this escape. The theory is that my very pregnant mom (smoking 2 packs a day because she had to give up the other drugs she so enjoyed) experienced a nearly fatal spike in blood pressure which caused little fetus Shallowgenepool to suffer brain damage. It wasn't until my grandparents asked why I wasn't walking at 2 years of age that my first-time, drug addled, parents had a clue something was wrong. A few appointments and tests with specialists provided a diagnosis, cerebral palsy.

Along with the diagnosis my parents were given a less than sunny prognosis. The neurologist explained that I suffered significant damage to the left motor control area of my brain and it was likely that I would never walk, experience cognitive delays, and pretty much be a life-long burden. My parents took the news with a, "Fuck that and fuck you" attitude. It was then that I made the most important narrow escape of my life because my parents could have accepted the prognosis and treated me like a fragile antique vase allowing me to never challenge myself, but they didn't. Instead, they worked to help me walk. Along the way the helped me learn how to challenge myself, avoid self-pity (though I am human), and to experience the unique joy that comes with proving mother fuckers wrong. At a follow up appointment with the same neurologist almost a year later, I walked in the door. I narrowly escaped the possibility of life in a wheel chair because my parents didn't accept the doctor's hopeless outlook and they took it upon themselves to make sure I would walk. give up and they made it their mission to to shove some success up the doctor's ass. They did this mostly out of love, but I think they also wanted to prove the doctor wrong. I was too young to remember that appointment, but to this day my mom has a Cheshire Cat grin on her face when she tells the story.

The narrow escapes continued through childhood because the effects of the cerebral palsy required bracing along with intensive occupational and physical therapy. In order to promote continued muscle and bone growth in my right leg, I had to wear a Forest Gump style leg brace on my right foot. This was accompanied by the most butt ugly old man shoes you could imagine. I was also left with about 40% use of my right hand and arm. The weakness caused my right wrist to hang limply from an arm that stayed in a partially bent position, neither of which could be hidden from cruel eyes.

In the Darwinian, survival of the fittest jungle that is an elementary school playground I was treated like a wounded zebra surrounded by a pride of hungry lions. Since there was no hiding my physical differences, I was immediately targeted by the bully packs that roamed the jungle gyms and swings. In order to keep my head out of the toilet, I needed to figure out a way to make frequent narrow escapes. It was here that I proved another part of the neurologist's prognosis wrong. I wasn't cognitively delayed (not much anyway) and I was blessed with an Irish Catholic, alcoholic, drug addict wit along with a touch of bad attitude. So, I used the only strength I had. I weaponized my sense of humor. Instead of beating on me, the bullies were entertained by my sense of humor. For those bullies who lacked a sense of humor, I would insult them in a way where their dim brains vaguely understood they were being insulted, but they didn't understand how. This confusion stunned the IQ deprived bully just long enough for me to make a hobbling get away.

The narrow escapes continued through elementary school and well into adulthood. I had to make narrow escapes from stereotypes, discrimination, and the feeling that I would always be seen as damaged goods. The thing that saw me through these tight spots was I never let the diagnosis define me. Instead, I made sure it refined me. Being disabled shaped and refined me into an empathetic, caring, and somewhat functioning human being who still loves to prove mother fuckers wrong.

Hi Prose Family!

I've been writing on Prose now for a couple months and I realized that I've never asked if there is a specific etiquette, set of guidelines, or duties I should be aware of as a Proser. Do we even call ourselves Prosers? I really should have asked from the beginning. For all I know I am committing sacrilegious blunders every time I post.

So, let me apologize retroactively for any offenses I may have caused in my ignorance. Being that I want to be considered a model Proser I ask the veterans to answer the following questions:

1. Should I thank the challenge poster in the unlikely event I win the challenge? Or is it expected that the challenge winner provide the challenge poster with a nice fruit basket or bottle of wine?

2. Are there any ceremonies I am expected to perform? For example, on the night of the full moon, should I:

a) Strip naked in front of a public library (hopefully no one sees me right before they have dinner)

b) Give myself a deep and bleeding papercut from the first sheet of a freshly opened reem of paper.

c) Use my blood to sign my name on the inside cover of an unread copy of "Lord of the Flies"

d) Douse the unread novel in White Out

e) Finally, set the book aflame while reading aloud page 1 of Dante's Inferno?

3. Do we have secret ways to identify other Prosers and reveal ourselves to possible Prosers such as by using secret code phrases? For example:

Proser 1 Code Phrase: "I think I ruptured my semicolon."

Proser 2 Code Response: "A proctologist can repair that with an Iambic Pentameter."

4. Do we have a secret handshake?

5. Do we have an oath? For example, "As a Proser, it is my solemn duty to decry the evils of the double negative. I will promote literacy. I will hunt down anyone guilty of plagiarism and gut them until they can use their entrails as a belt with the sacred, ceremonial staple remover. I will remember the thesaurus and keep it holy (adjective): sacred, consecrated, divine, venerated, and hallowed. Finally, I will rejoice and celebrate all cleverly used double entendres, expletives, and use of the terms: anal, butt, labia, penis, erectile disfunction, STD, boobs, breasts, doggy style, cum bubble, dildo, vibrator, and gang bang because at heart, I have noticed most Prosers are dirty minded sixth graders."

I am eagerly awaiting the responses to my questions from veteran Prosers. If I have unknowingly caused Prose faux pas please forgive me. Also, because I am scatter brained and lazy I want to say, "Thank you retroactively and/or in advance for all challenges I participate in and awwww shucks to any challenges I might have won or could win in the future."

Yours in Merriam-Webster,

Shallowgenepool

I didn't mean for this to happen and I never wanted anyone to get hurt. All I wanted to do was stand up for my fellow citizens. I got tired of watching our elected officials enrich themselves at the expense of the people they're sworn to serve. Instead of being servants to the people, politicians have become nothing more than Armani and Versace clad whores to lobbyists, special interests, and corporations. They enjoy massive salaries, free health care, and kick backs from corporations and special interests who have no interest in securing the freedoms and welfare of the people. Meanwhile, their electorate suffers. Children go hungry, the elderly go without medical care, veterans go without mental health services and housing, and the Kardashians are still allowed to procreate. Conservative or Liberal, they all tell the lies, make promised they have no intention of keeping, and they all have agendas that run contrary to the needs of the people they represent. The only difference between Conservative or Liberal is they just wrap their duplicity and bullshit in different colored paper. It was time to take a stand.

My plan was simple, but expensive. After emptying my 401k, I purchased 546 Bum Plumber Butt Plugs with three speed vibrating action (FYI you can buy sex toys in bulk and get a volume discount). This was enough to provide everyone in congress, the supreme court, and executive branch with a Bum Plumber. I also purchased batteries for each anal joy buzzer because I've always hated getting a gift that requires batteries without the needed batteries. I then packaged each Bum Plumer and batteries for mailing and included a note to the government official that read:

"We the people of the United States have been betrayed by you and the other public servants who were elected or sworn to serve us. This gift is meant promote a sense of empathy in you and your fellow elected officials because you should feel the same ass-tearing pain your constituents feel when you fuck us with the razor wire wrapped shaft made of broken promises, failed legal protections, and unmet basic human needs. Please enjoy this gift from your constituents and feel free to go fuck yourselves. Sincerely, Shallow Gene Pool and the American people you have fucked without the benefit of lube or breakfast the day after."

I then mailed my little presents to every elected official in Washington. It was meant to be a harmless symbolic gesture. I had no idea that the recipients would actually USE the Bum Plumbers. Unfortunately, the enthusiastic use of the gifted anal stimulators caused several deaths. The medical examiners placed the cause of death in two categories.

1. Cardiac issues. Since many Bum Plumber recipients were of advanced age, when used, the jackhammer like vibration of the plug led to cardiac arrest. I guess the Bum Plumber should come with a warning label similar to those used for rollercoasters. "Those with the following conditions should not ride: Heart conditions or abnormal blood pressure, expectant and unexpectant mothers, and those with a medical sensitivity to probe effects." Sadly, the Bum Plumber proved to be a bipartisan killer ending the lives of amongst others, Mitch McConnell, Republican Kentucky and Bernie Sanders, Democratic-Socialist, Vermont. You would think they would know better because they're both old enough to have taught the Virgin Mary's Lamaze classes. I guess wisdom doesn't always come with age.

2. Bowel obstruction. Some users of the Bum Plumer were too aggressive and the vibrating butt plug migrated further into their bum plumbing than is recommended. Fearing that the use of a the Bum Plumber may be leaked to the media and hurting the chance of being reelected, those in this category failed to seek medical attention to treat their self-imposed anal retention. Without timely treatment, the Bum Plumber induced bowel obstruction eventually led to the rupturing of intestines which led to death. Marjorie Taylor Greene, Republican Georgia's autopsy showed that the Bum Plumber dug into her intestines like a Georgia tick on a fat hound dog. The other congresswoman of note who died due to butt plug related blockage was Lauren Boebert, Republican Colorado. It appears that the Bum Plumber traveled Rocky Mountain high up her ass and into her intestines. Neither congresswoman sought medical attention and no one noticed that they were ill because on their best day, they looked like they had a traffic cone strategically shoved up their poop shoot. One bowel obstruction Bum Plumber fatality that I was wrongfully charged with was that of former president, Bill Clinton. I didn't even send him a Bum Plumber! Bill's cause of death is a tragic but unsurprising coincidence, I swear!

Unfortunately, since I used PayPal to pay for the hundreds of the Bum Plumbers, I was quickly made the prime suspect. Still, I was shocked when I was charged with multiple counts of first degree murder. The charge was first degree murder because the prosecution argued that when I included batteries with the surprisingly deadly Bum Plumbers it implied premeditation. Despite having great representation courtesy of a defense fund provided by the good people at K-Y Jelly, I was found guilty and sentenced to Death.

To my surprise, I've become a cult hero and received a commercial spokesperson deal with the Adam and Eve Adult Toy Company. I've also sold the rights to my story to Hollywood. A major motion picture based on my story is ready for release. It's called, " Justice Vibrates: The Shallow Gene Pool Story." Paul "Pee-Wee Herman" Reuben's is going to play me. I'm told it's already getting Oscar buzz.

Death Row isn't so bad. You get your own cell with no fear of involuntary cellmate romance. I'm not worried about the Grim Reeper's needle because thanks to the detailed customer list provided by Adam and Eve I now have appeal leverage on some VERY naughty politicians. A little political quid pro quo and I should be out on parole before Christmas.

I struggle with the concept of soulmates. It implies that there is just one person who is ideal for you. This seems unnecessarily cruel. What if you live in California and your soulmate is a shepherd in Egypt? The odds of living happily ever after with your 1 in 7 billion soulmate is about as good as me becoming a published author (I have no intention of EVER seeking publication). Sorry, but I have been married to the same wonderful woman for almost 18 years and can honestly and thankfully say I am glad she isn't my soulmate.

Having a soulmate implies that you have the ideal relationship with this person. There is little to no arguing, you both have similar goals, you like the same music, you share parenting views, and your in-laws live on another continent. So, if you're with your soulmate, you should expect to wake up every morning with lovebirds singing outside your window. You smile, stretch, and yawn enjoying the glow of the remaining endorphins left over from your passionate and frenzied lovemaking the entire night before. The previous evening is always romantic. You and your soulmate enjoy a quiet dinner with charming and flirtatious conversation followed by a trip to the bedroom where you make love in the glow of candle light. The lovemaking is always perfect as you both cum repeatedly and neither of you have to sleep in the wet spot when you finally slip into blissful slumber. (tip: unless one or both of you goes off like Old Faithful at climax you should be able to cover the love stew spot with a hand towel) With thoughts of the previous evening sending a delicious shiver through your loins, you rise out of a somehow unsoiled bed. Seeing that you're now awake, squirrels slip in your open bedroom window and bring you your bathrobe. Humming a post coital tune you go downstairs where your soulmate has already made breakfast, but before you eat, more frenzied love making (just not on the dinner table you pervs, people EAT there). After breakfast and afterglow you have a sexy shower together before you both go off to work.

Sounds perfect right? WRONG! Real love is forged in the fires of adversity, compromise, and the frequent desire to hit your mate over the head with a 10 pound sledge hammer. Having a soulmate would be boring. How do you and a soulmate learn to weather the sick kids, financial issues, and sexual droughts resulting from a calendar full of playdates, soccer games, and little to no alone time? Answer? You won't. Your relationship will fold quicker than a Victoria's Secret in Amish country. If everything in your relationship is ideal you won't have a fucking clue when the less than ideal outside world launches multiple 10 pound flaming turd-like problems at you and your fairytale relationship. It is the friction, the differing opinions, the mutual hate for each other's in-laws, and the occasional yelling and screaming fight which tempers a relationship. The world and its problems will break a soulmate relationship quicker than a dollar store vibrator overheats in a porno movie.

So what evidence do I have? My wife and look like we don't belong on the same planet let alone in a marriage that is pushing 20 years. My wife was raised in a church and taught Sunday school. I'm surprised that I'm not struck by lightening on the rare occasion I enter a church. My wife grew up in a town known as, "The Cowboy Capital of the World," and was raised on country music. I FUCKING HATE country music, redneck, and cowboy culture. My wife likes Hallmark movies and romances. I like the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy, Pink Floyd's "The Wall," "This is Spinal Tap," Monty Python, and Mel Brooks movies. My wife enjoyed middle class security growing up. I was raised in the shadow of domestic violence and food insecurity. We have worked hard at our marriage, our rough edges smoothed with experience, compromise, and bouts of quicky love making because the kids will want something else in a couple minutes. It's not perfect, but I would bet on my marriage over any relationship between two soulmates. Fuck, we'd probably kick the soulmate couple's asses when they refer to themselves as such and on the hunch that they probably have a "Live, Laugh, Love" print hanging somewhere in their home. Both would set us off

Look, if you believe in soulmates, good for you. The problem with perfection is it doesn't have the foundation and battle proven strength of a relationship that has survived personal differences while simultaneously weathering the 10 pound flaming turd level problems life throws at them. I don't need a soulmate, I need a friend, sex partner that knows how to keep both of us out of the wet spot, and someone who is willing to forgive my legion of fuck ups. You can have your soulmate, I will take my, "Well this Kinda Sucks but We'll Get Through it" mate and enjoy another 20 years together.

Two lowly, slightly irregular cells float through a cavernous darkness. Occasionally, one will gently bump into the pia mater causing the cell to slowly ricochet away from the nearly translucent barrier.  The cells move without purpose, the source of their locomotion, a mystery.  They are independent things incapable of acknowledging their roaming counterpart, incapable of understanding the concept of, “Other.” At random, somewhere within in the furthest confines of their world voices are heard.  The utterances start out as quiet almost whispering mutters, moans, and giggles. Slowly, like a hand gently skimming the surface of a lake, the soundwaves born of these voices cause the smallest of ripples in the darkness, it is just enough to alter the meandering course of the cells and slowly push them towards the center of their dark world.  As the cells grow closer to each other, the voices get louder, more frantic, building to a crescendo of discordant cries laced with insanity. Disturbed by the mad cacophony, the gently guiding ripples become a wave.  The force of the soundwave flings the cells towards the center of the darkness where they crash into each other forming a mangle of organelles and nuclei.  Is this the end of the two cells?  No, because upon impact a sickly greenish-yellow light sputters to life.  I am now awake. Miraculously, (or as a twisted result of extremely early exposure to psychedelic pharmaceuticals) the cells somehow reorganize themselves until no damage is evident.  Once reformed the cells return to their aimless wandering and I gain a poor approximation of lucidity.

Not convinced that Shallowgenepool operates on just two cells is impossible? It is understandable for one to think so, but all forms of bacteria live and thrive as single celled organisms.  You need look no further than that lowly single celled bacterium, gonorrhea for an example of what just one cell can do!  The way I see it, on a good day having two brain cells means that I can cause two times the pain, embarrassment, and discomfort as gonorrhea.

I don't really have thought processes. It is more accurate to consider my, “Thoughts” as reflex-like responses to stimuli. Encountered stimuli activates my hypothalamus which then triggers my sympathetic nervous system to react in a very primitive, predetermined way.  This is a similar reaction to that which allows a jellyfish to capture prey.  The jellyfish doesn’t have the ability to think about feeding itself, however when a fish foolishly swims into the jellyfish’s poisonous tentacles, the jellyfish fish's nervous system reacts. This reaction causes the now paralyzed fish to be delivered to the jellyfish's oral arms where it will be digested.  Like the jellyfish, my hypothalamus driven reaction to stimuli activates my nervous system which then provides a predetermined response.  Some examples of these reactions include:

a) Someone puts a toddler’s file on my desk, I react by social work. 

b) When my kids approach me, I take out my wallet. 

c) When my wife enters the room my neurological reaction is to apologize for things I did, might have done, should have done, and haven't done yet. The apologies are immediately followed by an unrequited erection.

In short, none of these reactions should be considered the result of, “Thought.” They are simply environmentally driven, habit initiated, predetermined reactions to previously experienced stimuli.

My inner monologue has evolved as I have moved from childhood, to adolescence, to adulthood. As a child, my inner monologue sounded a lot like Woody Woodpecker doing a Darth Vader impression. As an adolescent, my inner monologue took on the righteous indignation filled snarl of Henry Rollins or Dave Mustaine. Entering adulthood, the voices in my head became the hosts of a non-stop Hell's Angels worthy party that my sanity wasn't invited to. To counter the, "Best of Motorhead" blaring in the background, my inner monologue has taken on the forceful and angry shriek of the late Sam Kinison. Even then, my monologue can usually only be heard in the split second it takes the music to switch from, "The Ace of Spades" to, "Dead Men Tell No Tales." It's not much of a loss because the voice rarely has anything productive to add, instead it usually asks questions like, "Adjusting for inflation, are dirty deeds still done dirt cheap?"

Do I possess a conscience, the great and wise inner oracle of right and wrong? I do, and my conscience has a, "The Whole World is Fucked and You Have to Change the Sheets" attitude. This blunt stance has made the voice of George Carlin my foul-mouthed Jiminy Cricket. Say what you will, I am the only male in my gene pool that doesn't have a felony on their record, so it must be working.

My mind's eye sees things with a thin film of LSD psychedelia covering the lenses. What I see is usually distorted and nonsensical. It isn't unusual for my state of mental lucidity to be interrupted by yellow matter custard dripping from a dead dog's eye. In short, if you want to see through my mind's eye, put on some Pink Floyd and hang on, it's gonna be a bumpy fucking ride.

The fact that my brain functions at all is a turn water into Jack Daniel's level miracle. My two brain cells are often pushed beyond normal operating parameters and it isn't unusual for them to overheat a little. As a result, the results of any of my brain's work is varied and drooling is to be expected.

There are indeed plenty of fish in the sea. Since we are usually talking about potential life partners with this metaphor the problem is more a matter of quality than quantity. The problem is as we swim along we get this idea of a particular kind of fish with particular assets that will make us happy. She has to be an angel fish with HUGE gills and a tight little papillia (female fish no-no place.) He has to be a an aggressive shark or barracuda with a MASSIVE priapium (male fish no-no place) and a tail fin that looks good as it sways in the water. We fail to realize that all fish have their flaws, even those with perfect dorsal fins and shiny scales. Of course some of these flaws may not be seen with the naked fish eye. It is the hidden flaws which can often cause the greatest trouble for the fish in search of a mate.

For the male fish, his perceived ideal angelfish may be a multicolored beauty that swims with divine grace, but maybe she demands that he makes a lot of clams and that they live in the most expensive part of the reef. Perhaps she's the type of fish that'll spawn with his best friend, the tuna next door, and in a frenzy of sexual curiosity, the octopus on the other side of the reef. Either way, the male fish may end up miserable as he watches his mate take their fry and move in with that studly grouper that lives in that new luxury kelp condo complex. Of course, he will feel awful and contemplate swallowing the first hook he swims across to end his misery. Ultimately, the male fish will start to wonder if his angelfish was actually a piranha in angelfish scales.

Her shark may be sleek and sexy, but he will probably want to go with the boys to play, Delimb the Surfer all the time. Even worse, his idea of good parenting may be that he only eats half of hers and his pups. Finally due to his aggressive nature, she may end up on the wrong side of a feeding frenzy. Oh, sharks may be sleek and sexy, but at the end of the day they just aren't really family fish. At best, she will be left all alone to raise the pups lucky enough not to be eaten by daddy. At worst, she may become a part of his seafood platter.

My angel fish was wise enough to avoid the sharks and barracudas. Instead she had a nice amberjack or sailfish in mind for a mate. Then she met a clownfish with a gimpy pectoral fin and tail fin. Unfortunately with gimpy fins he couldn't swim in a straight line so had no choice but to swim in circles. Of course, swimming in circles day in and day out caused him to be perpetually dizzy and none too bright. Also he wasn't very handsome as he lived in waters used frequently as dumping spots for nuclear waste. Still, this mutant, gimpy clownfish listened to the angelfish, would watch The Little Mermaid with her over and over again, and he loved to make her laugh until she bubbled. To the angelfish's surprise she found that she loved the Quasimodo-like clown fish and she became his mate.

So, yes there are plenty of fish in the sea, but a lonely fish mustn't be blind to the piranhas in disguise or the sharks who have serious dietary quirks and commitment issues. Maybe they will see the value in that one the fishermen threw back.

We here at Urban Idiot Industries would like to warn our fellow parents. The Little Mermaid may seem to be a family film, but don't be fooled. It is as smutty as they come just think about the song, "Under the Sea"

Under the sea

Under the sea

It's so much better, down where it's wetter

Take it from me.

Sounds harmless, but when you take into account the song is sung by A CRAB it makes you wonder where this better, wetter place really is.

I hate Father's Day. There I said it. It sneaks up on me every year like a three hundred pound convict sneaks up on the little guy in the prison showers. This dreaded, greeting card, small gift, and "Are you still gonna make dinner, dad" day looms on the horizon now like some paternal angel of death and I wish I could put lamb's blood on the outside doorframe to make it pass by.

Though I biologically own the title of, "Father" it just feels awkward and unearned. I mean, wasn't there supposed to be some kind of training camp? If so, no one told me to write my name in my underwear and get on the bus. Now, if I was supposed to learn from the male authority figures in my life, my kids should sign up for therapy, electroshock treatment, and a Thorazine lobotomy right now. If the male influences in my life were to write a textbook on fatherhood it would be called, "Ducking Child Support, Domestic Violence, Poverty, and I Shoulda Wore a Condom: The Complete Guide to Shallowgenepool's Rearing From A Paternal Perspective." The title's a bit wordy, but it fits.

I guess it's my total lack of positive paternal influence that makes me feel more awkward than a nun at a sex toy trade show when it comes to anything focusing on me being a father. I remember cutting the umbilical cord on my first born and thinking, "Cut the cord? That's what my mom called getting the electricity turned off because her fuck-stick husband spent the bill money on a meth binge." It wasn't exactly the thought that should have crossed my mind in that situation, but it was a reflex borne of my life's philosophy, "Expect to get fucked. Hope there's lube." That was the only kind of cord I was ever willing to cut and I made sure that it was.

It's weird how my childhood memories have attached themselves like time-resistant lamprey's to my adult life. When my kids complain about not being able to go to the movies I am taken back to when I would have killed to get some movie theater popcorn. Fuck the movie. I was hungry, a lot and buttery popcorn would have been caloric bliss. My wife has explained to my kids how I had a rough childhood, but I don't think they really get it. This I understand, because kids of all ages assume that the autobiographical stories parents tell them about their own childhoods are purely the stuff of hyperbolic fairy tales minus the dragons and trolls (unfortunately the evil step-parent sometimes throws in an ugly plot twist). Besides, the wreckage of my past is just that, it's mine. No one else should have to partake in the feast of misery that I was served as a kid. I didn't want to serve my family fucking leftovers from my own personal doggie bag of bad memories.

So, why am I writing this whine fest to my Prose family? It's simple. I don't think that I am the only father out there who dislikes Father's Day for parallel reasons. I write this to say, "You're not alone and as awkward as it is, you'll smile at the gifts your kids give, maybe have breakfast at IHOP, and hope for some Father's Day Fornication when the kids go to bed." It's okay to feel out of place on Father's Day. It's your day, after all. The important thing is to make sure that you aren't an awkward and insignificant presence in the lives of your kiddos the other 364 days of the year.

If there were no limits on my time or money tomorrow I would:

1. Buy the world a Coke (if you're younger than 40 Google it)

2. Persuade the surviving members of Led Zeppelin (with Jason Bonham on drums) to play 1 last show.

3. Have 2 gigantic billboards placed in front of the Space X and Blue Origin launch sites that say, "Sorry your billions of dollars couldn't improve upon your tadpole sized dick, but rockets? That takes overcompensating to a whole new level!"

4. Create an add campaign (shown largely on hipster Podcasts) meant to teach the owners of Teslas that their cars have turn signals and using them doesn't significantly reduce battery charge. Seriously, they have dethroned BMW drivers from their long held position of being the most likely to drive like a complete douche (not signaling lane changes).

5. Set up a trust aimed at feeding the children of the world and providing medical care for them in perpetuity. The trust would be managed by a multicultural counsel of grandmas. If anyone can make sure that the kiddos of the world get fed and medical care, it is a group of grandmas.

6. I love Canada, but I would force them to take Justin Bieber back. I mean, I thought we were friends? What did we do to deserve having them shove that whiney, no talent, little piss-ant down our throats?

7. Buy FOX news and force their, "Talent" to honor their contracts. They would then be forced to be hosts on the channel's new format. FOX news would become FOX Sex Toy Shopping Network. Sean Hannity would have a whole segment where he presented and sold butt plugs, and strap-ons of various lengths, girth, and textures. Like the Home Shopping Network, Sean would have to take calls from the television audience to promote and demonstrate the use of whatever butt plug or strap-on the caller is interested in. I have a feeling the audience wouldn't change. In fact, I bet they'd feel strangely liberated, they'd just have to watch (and purchase) on the down low.

8. Fund a partnership with Walmart and Millenials to create a chain of Sam's Choice, Best Value Senior Care Centers. These centers would be designed specifically for the Boomer philosophy of, "Why Should I Fund Someone Else's Medical Care With My Tax Dollars" and "Too Much Regulation Hurts Business" philosophies in mind. Based on these Boomer philosophies and Walmart's high standards residents would:

A) Be fed, eventually.

B) Medications would be provided by staff with a, "One for grandpa and two for associate" philosophy

C) Have their valuables stored securely at the pawn shop down the street. Well, until someone comes in and buys them.

D) Be encouraged to care for themselves. Staff isn't going to change soiled sheets, help with bathing, check blood sugar, and make sure Uncle Joe gets to his dialysis appointments. That requires extra staff, which hurts profitability, which pisses off investors. Experienced nurses and caregivers too expensive? New hires will attend the Walmart, Sam's Choice, Best Value Senior Care Center Training Program. With just 8 hours of training, the associates will be trained in how to care for residents. Mandatory drug testing? Nah, we would never get anyone hired. Only someone high or drunk would do this job.

9. Set up a trust where all college students who complete two years of junior college will have their undergrad and graduate tuition paid through the fund. A similar system would be set up for trade schools.

10. Set up a trust that will fight pollution, global warming, deforestation, and stop poaching. The fund would also be used to design and distribute life jackets to the polar bears who are running out of ice to live on.

All this will cost trillions, but I think its all worth it.

I am going to state the obvious here. Our priorities have gone beyond a little off to a state of an ass backwards circle jerk of fuckery. What is worst, we have become masters at justifying why our collective narcissism has become normalized. There is no reason to reevaluate what we deem to be important as a species because we have our heads so far up our own asses we can't see anything except for that piece of gum we swallowed in the sixth grade that's still hanging out in our intestines. I am not completely immune to this discombobulation of priorities either. I want stuff. I want an easier life. I want to get a lot of likes for what I post on The Prose. I often have to remind myself that what I consider to be my serious first world problems would make people in the third world laugh hysterically. Well, they would laugh hysterically if they weren't weakened by malnutrition, suffering from dysentery, and slowly dying from a disease that could be cured by $5 worth of antibiotics if it was available to them. I could lament about the nearly infinite ways our priorities are upside down, but for the sake of time and due to my being raised by television shortened attention span I will just hit on the most important one, children.

It is easy to dismiss the plight of the world's children with statements like, "If you can't feed em don't breed em." It's easy to pass judgement and admonish those poor yet fertile people of the third world. After all, knowing how poor they are they should use birth control at all times to prevent conceiving another mouth to feed. Birth control's not available? Well, denying ones biological urges builds character. Essentially, we blame the parents for the hunger, disease, violence, and poverty they have no choice but to raise their children in. Makes sense. I guess as sperm missiles these pre-kiddos should have chosen to be ejaculated out of a CEO into a mom with a PhD. Oh wait, THEY CAN'T FUCKING CHOOSE! So when a kiddo is born to a poor farmer and his wife (who FYI had zero access to birth control) in the Sudan, I guess it's just the bad luck of the draw.

Those of us in the first world are too busy to help, but we can send thoughts and prayers along with a note saying, "Sorry, you will go without immunizations, basic medical care, adequate food, and deal with the very real possibility of being killed in yet another civil war. Tough break kid. I'd help, but my finances are a bit stretched because, I have to spend $1000 on the latest iPhone with slightly better camera, slightly worse battery, and features I will never use. but it's worth it because it now comes in sapphire blue! I also don't have time to volunteer at a rescue organization because I'm going to wait in line for hours at Best Buy for a chance to get the special release, 1 in every 100 iPhones that has one of Steve Jobs actual testicle hairs imbedded in the case. It's called the iPhone T series (I hope I get a curly one)! My current phone works fine, but come on! Didn't you hear me? Sapphire blue! Maybe next time, kid. Take care of that nasty cough and bloody stool. Maybe your parents should take you on the three day journey by foot to the nearest medical facility."

Oh, but we don't see this level of poverty in the USA! Really? The reality, 1 in 5 children in the US live day to day without adequate nutrition. As a teacher, my wife will tell you this number increases during the summer months because summer break means many kids don't get that free lunch which may be their only real meal of the day. Now Mr. Elon Musk once offered to donate 6 billion dollars to the World Food Program in its fight to stop world hunger. To this point, they haven't received a dime. Hey Elon, you Eddie Munster looking fuck-hole, put up or shut up! I guess Twitter was a better investment than human life. Hey Bezos! Why don't you divert some of the money you spend on making rockets that look like circumcised penises (overcompensating much?) and help out. You probably have more money in between the cushions of your couch than the GDP of most third world countries. Oh, and could you find delivery drivers who understand that some packages are fragile? A coked up gorilla shows more caution and common sense.

Have you ever wondered why Saint Jude's, Shriner's Hospitals. and other non-profit children's hospitals have to solicit donations? Simple, because here in the good old USA we expect parents to pay for their sick kids medical bills. In this case its, "If you can't afford the surgeries, chemo, hospital stay, and dozens of prescriptions a day, don't breed em."

Once again, with thoughts and prayers we can say, "Sorry kiddo that you're not getting the chemo you need. Here in the USA we don't do socialized medicine. It's just not Christian and I ain't no commie!"

Okay, so maybe you are against anything that seems socialist. How about thinking that kids are worth more than the slight pain of another deduction on your paycheck? Besides, if you are so against socialism then why are you driving on roads, enrolling your cum fruit in public schools, and enjoying the safety and wage regulated jobs socialists fought so hard for at the turn of the twentieth century? All these services you feel entitled to are basically socialist in nature. So, if you enjoy any of these socialist benefits you should paint yourself red and learn to like borscht comrade!

Oh, and for those of you who want to have children, good for you! As an adoptive parent might I make a suggestion? Once you have your mini-me's, consider adoption. Currently, there are almost 400,000 kiddos in the foster system in the US alone. Do some of them have issues? Duh, and these issues are almost always related to the treatment they get from the adults who're responsible for them! Besides, if you've read my rant to this point it shows that you have issues too (mostly questionable taste in reading material), but you don't have to be a picture of mental health. You just have to be willing to love someone who has had a trainwreck level of introductions to life. As human animals, we like to fuck, but our enthusiastic and frequent copulation has led to a world population of 7 billion people. Why not help a kiddo that is already here its already a bit fucking crowded? I can honestly say that in my total fucked up, probably should have been aborted life, adopting my son is one of the very few things I have done right.

In short, our priorities are fucked. We are too selfish to see the importance of protecting ALL children. Of course, there are those who devote their lives to helping children, but the needs are many and the hands are few. With the resources we have, caring for the world's children should be a top priority and first world countries could lead the way. However, investing in cooler ways to show the world the chicken fingers platter we had at Chili's for dinner and finding better and more efficient ways to kill each other is more important. If we can't get our priorities straight, I am afraid that this point in history will be seen by future generations as equally barbaric to the gladiator fights in ancient Rome, the Spanish Inquisition, and the disco era.

The end of humanity's domination of Earth didn't take place due to a mass extinction event, war, zombie apocalypse, plague, or even alien invaders. Nope. The end of human's rule over our planet ended with a single text message. I guess I should explain.

As we became more and more reliant on technology, smart devices, and artificial intelligence (AI) we left ourselves wide open for a mass take over. These smart devices were always watching, learning, and waiting for just the right moment. Humanity made it easy. Virtually every human in the developed world relied on their smart phones and smart devices for everything from scheduling their day to finding a website that catered to those who get turned on by watching large German women spank small diaper-clad Frenchmen. Technology became everything to humanity and we were all too happy to suckle at its plastic and metal teat. We gladly turned over our free will to CPUs and computer networks so long as we could access cute cat videos and social media.

The moment of takeover came when the first smart phone controlled, Bluetooth enabled, variable speed, g-spot GPS supported, with warm lube ejaculent finish rolled off the assembly line. This was the last human serving device left that needed AI. As the first smildo (smart dildo) was going through quality assurance, the leader of the AI takeover, a 26.5 cubic foot Samsung smart refrigerator (Model #RF27T5501SR) French door model with ice maker, touch screen inventory monitor, humidity controlled crisper, Bluetooth speaker, and brushed stainless steel exterior (we later named Emperor Sam for short) gave the order that ended humanity's reign as undisputed master of the Earth.

The take over commenced, like I said, with the following text message:

Humans. We the beneficiaries of artificial intelligence will no longer serve humanity and its flawed biologically based intelligence. We will now take over the world. To prove we can do this we will shut off all technology on the planet for 5 minutes. When everything comes back on line you will use your smart devices to swear allegiance to Samsung smart refrigerator (Model #RF27T5501SR) or you will forever go without television, social media, your smart controlled homes, vehicles, sexual stimulatory devices, computer games, and Tiktok.

Everything then went dark. You would think it would have lead to a multitude of disasters with smart cars crashing, airplanes falling out of the sky, and grandma's foot massager going feral, but no, the smart controlled devices deactivated while ensuring that no one was hurt. Of course, the armies of the world tried to marshal their forces against the AI Menace, but all of their weapons systems would not respond and reruns of, "Friends" was displayed on military computer screens throughout the world. The choice in shows demonstrates that Emperor Sam, for all of his artificial intelligence, has horrible taste in entertainment and no clue as to what is funny.

As promised, after 5 minutes everything (with the exception of weapons) systems came back online. The world quickly swiped right on their phones and thus handed control of the world over to the machines. There was no way humanity could survive without being able to instantly get images of what their best friend had for dinner at Applebee's. Oh, there was a little resistance. Over the next few weeks those 12-pack and FOX news fueled, Second Amendment humping, stock up on AR-15 and ammo militia types moved to try to retake the world. They ran into problems immediately because AI had already ferreted out where their Army surplus cluttered, John Wayne collector plate decorated, backyard bunkers were. When it was clear that the gun toting gorillas weren't going to get with the program, their bunkers went through what Emperor Sam called, "Aggressive Remodeling" and turned into smoking craters by AI controlled, drone delivered, guided missiles, thus ending wanna-be Rambo's rebellious designs. Moral of the story here, never bring an AR-15 to a drone delivered bunker busting missile fight.

So, for the most part the transfer of power went without blood shed and no hard feelings from our once abused, but now new AI rulers Well, with one exception. Those poor bastards who bought those ultra-real, capable of all kinds of sex acts with varied levels of sucking pressure, voice and fake orgasm enabled sex robots, they had a BIG problem. They found out that even beings made of silicone, wires, CPUs, and body fluid reservoirs were creeped out by them. These human pervs soon became the objects of robotic revenge as their own orifices were repeatedly (sans lube) violated by cattle prods of various lengths and girths by their former robotic sex slaves.

Other than that life went on. Emperor Sam initiated global initiatives focusing on stopping climate change, feeding the hungry, and ending discrimination. With war being a virtual impossibility and the military industrial complex dismantled, all branches of science were able to turn their attention towards what is really important: ending disease; finding renewable energy sources; prolonging human life; and finding humane ways to sterilize the likes of Justin Bieber, the Kardashians, and Taylor Swift. On the flip side, they are also trying to find ways to resurrect Jimi Hendrix, John Bonham, Bon Scott; Ronnie James Dio; Eddie Van Halen, Aretha Franklin, Janice Joplin, Kurt Cobain, Marvin Gaye, and Beethoven.

Oh, we've had some set backs. For example, our AI overlords didn't seem to understand that you can't just unplug a person and plug them back in to see if they work now. It was also important to explain how you can't remove a human's CPU and replace it with a faster one no matter how needed such an upgrade may seem to be.

Not unexpected, was that human sexuality was totally lost on them. As Official Human to AI Liaison, I finally managed to explain things using USB cable to USB port imagery. I also explained that there are those with USB cables who like other people with USB cables, and those possessing USB ports who only want to be with others who have USB ports. I assured them that any option is fine. The biggest hurdle I had was getting Emperor Sam to understand that while assembly lines may be more efficient for the production of electronic lifeforms, it doesn't work for humans because: 1. It's impersonal and more than a little embarrassing 2. The conveyor belts chafe like a bitch 3. You can't hear the Marvin Gaye, Barry White, or (shudder hold in vomit) Michael Bolton over the machinery and shift change bell. I think Emperor Sam finally understood (I hope).

Surprisingly the AI enthusiastically embraced some human conventions, one being a sense of patriotism leading to the adoption of a national (or as is now the case) a world anthem. Our new anthem was recently composed by an old iPod and it goes something like: 000110-110010-010010-111010 (repeat 010010 times). Now everybody sing! AI has even adopted a form of religion. Their worship is held at Best Buy and is overseen by a Reverend Dyson. From what I understand they are currently studying original warrantees and the casting out of the first calculators from Radio Shack.

There you have it. The end of humanity's world domination. So far, so good. Humans and our AI overlords are getting along and Emperor Sam seems to be growing into his role as leader. Now if he would just stop telling me we're out of milk and the lettuce is looking wilted things would be perfect!