Dear Offspring


by Rick Paulas


Dear Offspring,

Unless your mom's a dumb cunt, you will be receiving this on your 18th birthday. So, first things first: Happy Birthday!

Your 18th birthday is a magical time, full of a whole new world of freedoms. But, to paraphrase Spider-Man, with great freedom comes great responsibilities. One of these responsibilities is, of course, taking care of your body. And that means being wary of the opposite sex and their advances.

Not only are there plenty of venereal diseases roaming the world waiting to rot your genitals from the inside-out, but there’s also plenty of folks out there full of empty promises who only have the intention of using your body like a lubed-up sack of potatoes, throwing out the spuds when they’re finished. My advice is, simply, to abstain from sex altogether. At least until your 30th birthday. It’s too dangerous at this tender age.

(If you’re a son, please ignore the last paragraph. Go get ‘em, pal. Just make sure to get a pack of rubbers from your mom before you head out.)
With that uncomfortable lesson out of the way, please allow me to introduce myself. 18 years ago, I met your mother in a [one of the following: bar / restaurant / dance club / strip club / wedding / baseball game / funeral service], and fell head over heels for her the moment I saw her [order a drink / order a meal / dance / dance / cry / heckle / cry]. I saw her look in my direction and knew right away she was interested in engaging me in sexual intercourse (ask your mother about this). Since your mom is / was an amazing beauty, I whipped out my best pickup line:

“Is that Windex in your pants? ‘Cause I can see myself in ‘em!”

While the pickup line doesn’t make much sense if you examine it - unless we are to assume that the question asks if Windex has been synthetically woven into the fabric of the pants - bedding your mother that night had more to do with my incredibly handsome looks than anything else; good looks that have been, hopefully, handed down to you. (You’re welcome.)

Your mother awoke the next day with an envelope pinned to her purse. Inside was this letter, and a note with the explicit instructions that “the contents of the letter shall be given to my offspring no sooner than their 18th birthday, or else the penalty will be dual ear amputation”. (I’m sure by now you’ve noticed that your mother’s not all that bright.) And that was the last we ever saw of each other: two star-crossed lovers, their journeys overlapping for this brief instant before heading in opposite directions: me, to the next woman; and her, with a brand new bundle of joy as a memento of the time we spent together.

Which brings me to the most essential point of this letter: There’s a whole lot of you out there. Your dad, well, he was quite the ladies man in his younger and, presumably, older years. As such, I’ve left a lot of you kids in my wake. How many, no one knows. Hundreds? Probably. Thousands? Possibly.

My advice is to keep this letter handy at all times. If you happen to sense yourself about to fall in the throes of passion with another, ask your partner if they also happened to receive one of these. I know it’s an awkward thing to ask (especially if they say yes), but it’s a whole lot better than the alternative of having retarded kids.

And now I will leave you. Feel free to try and find me. The clues contained in this letter will lead you to my hideout. I know you’ll be smart enough to solve the riddle; you have half of my genius genes after all. I’ll be right here, waiting for you.

Make your papa proud,
Daddy

P.S. I’m just kidding. There are no clues. But since you’re 18 and, according to law, old enough to provide for yourself without any child support, feel free to look me up sometime. Maybe a whole group of you can get together via an Internet group or something, piecing together small clues about my whereabouts, all trying to locate your long-lost father. It’ll be fun, like a real life “Where in the World is Carmen San Diego?”

Good Hunting,
D