Skrip - tyur' - i - ent: adj. Possessing the violent desire to write.


#006 In which our hero discovers that pimpin' is, indeed, not easy.

My baby is perfect. I know that every parent thinks their baby is perfect, but they're wrong. MY baby is the perfect one. I mean, just look:

Is that a perfect angel or what? (Ignore the drool). My wife and I often talk about the perfectness of our little bean, and how other parents, while they smile and coo appreciatively, must secretly be thinking "Dammit! That baby is perfect! How did I get stuck with such a clunker?"

Lily (the afore mentioned perfect baby) is a very happy baby, too; always smiling and laughing. There's nothing like this little girl's giggle to brighten your day. Well, that is, unless you're one of the bitter, envious parents that covet my baby.

She's so perfect and photogenic that it occurred to me that she's twice the baby than some of the ugly off-spring you see on TV or in ads. I mean, look at the Olsen twins! They looked like scrunched up humanzees... and now they're multi-millionaires. And also, kinda hot.

Should I feel guilty that I would like my daughter to be a multi-millionaire, too? I'd gladly handle her finances for her, and I'd only skim off 10%, not like those other money-grubbin' parent-managers... just enough to buy a small mansion in California wine country. With my own private airstrip, of course.

But seriously, how could you NOT buy sometime hawked by this beautiful little girl?


or even

Of course, my wife is the logical one in our pairing. She pointed out that I'd have to quit my job and be available at all hours for photo shoots and the like. The thing is, I'd gladly quit my job to ferry around my daughter to line my own pockets... but to be home in the middle of the day and not be able to take a nap? Forget that.


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