Why I Can Never Be a Family Man

I can already see myself - already well on in my age, should I live long enough to experience these fool's-golden years; my sixties, maybe seventies.

I can already feel it - my mind slipping, sanity filtering itself out through life's will, my blood and my shit stains. My wife and children hovering over me like a puppy run over by an the ice cream man after he dropped some bad acid and thought the Berry Swirls were trying to eviscerate his essential scrotum parts with seven different "berry-good" flavors and fiver different "berry-licious" selections.

"Couldn't you just shove the Creamy Puffballs up my ass?" the laced-out, mobile food-provider would whimper.

In my bed I would lie, whithering away in my bed; no one having a clue why. Doctors find no reason for my deteriorating mental health. My family prays. It brings them hope.

Eventually, wife and children grow accustom to changing my diapers, drying my urine-sprayed belly, wiping my crap-stained tushy; and constantly dabbing my drooling mouth. And after the months, or even years; however long I still find the whole thing funny, on the inaugural day of the fourth month, I will prop myself up just as my daily changing is going on, pop to my feet on top of the mattress, and hysterically scream "APRIL FUCKING FOOLS, YOU BASTARDS!"

The last thing I will hear is my own laughter as my family predictably, lovingly, obediently beat me to death because THAT, ladies and gentleman, is how I show people I love them.