“You know, Mrs. Buckman, you need a license to buy a dog, to drive a car – hell, you even need a license to catch a fish. But they’ll let any butt-reaming asshole be a father.”
– “That Todd” (Keanu Reeves), Parenthood
So you want to be a mum. You’ve read the books and you’ve listened to the experts. You’re in the prime of your life and at the peak of fitness. You don’t smoke, you don’t drink, you don’t do any of the things they tell you not to do. Your diet is free from gluten, wheat, dairies, dyes and preservatives. You take supplements for vitamins D and B. You take Pro Omega pills, Calcium and Magnesium, C3 and Vitamin D3 – whatever the hell that means.
Every night, when you sit down to dinner, you swallow a teaspoon of Apple Cider Vinegar and Zinc and it more or less makes you barf. You take your temperature daily and you chart your ovulation. When you have sex, you do it doggy style – not because you’re locked helplessly in the throws of sweaty passion, but because your doctor told you it’s the position most conducive to conception – thus reducing one of life’s most primal and exhilarating rituals to a mere chore; like doing your taxes.
Yet the pitter patter of tiny little feet continues to elude you.
The 17 year old skank walking past you at the platform as you wait for the 8.35 to Southern Cross Station has no such problems. She is grey-skinned and pock-marked. Her full-term belly bulges out of a food-stained crop top with the word ‘Gunt’ written on it. She’s pushing a stroller whose contents include two toddlers and a can of Jack in the drink holder. A fag hangs limply out of her mouth as though it, too, has given up on life. It’s not immediately clear if she has ever taken Calcium and Pro omega supplements to aid her fertility, but you remain doubtful.
In her wake is a trail of squealing, uncontrollable brats running circles around her and her pasty, undead be-hoodied boyfriend, who only manages to yank himself out of his comatose state long enough to shout “Maverick! I’m not gonna tell you again – stop playing on the fucken tracks!” If the boyfriend looks familiar it’s because he robbed you with a syringe once. And the screaming brats? They’ll do the same in about ten years from now.
There are a lot of things that bother you about this scene, but none more than the fact that, if you happen to be a subscriber to theory of evolution, this smack addicted, adolescent moron is a spectacular success at arguably the most important of the four basic goals of human existence: breeding. And you are, to date, a failure. If you sit down and think about this for long enough, you’re going to need a really fucking stiff drink. But wait, you can’t, right? Your naturopath says drinking’s out.
The second you make a conscious decision to have a baby, families like this will be around every corner. You never paid them any mind before, but now you can’t escape them. Some friends of mine who were trying to conceive developed the motto “If junkies can do it, so can we.” They got there in the end, but many don’t.
The print media and commercial breakfast TV programs feature a conga line of nutritionists, statisticians and Michelle Bridgeses lecturing you about your lifestyle and vices and how it’s affecting your chances of having a baby. And yet as soon as you step into the real world, all you see is successful breeders who make a mockery of this expert advice.
Why, then, in the ongoing search for the secret to fertility, do we not turn to these simple folk for inspiration? Why don’t you ever hear Lisa Wilkinson on the Today show say “Coming up next, 16 year old crack whore and mother of 12, Destahnee, offers her top ten handy hints for wannabe mums!”?
Rat Drawn Daddy has teamed up with a who’s-who of child rearing experts, including:
- the guy who once king hit me at a Uni party for checking out his girlfriend*;
- the chick on the tram screaming into her phone at someone called ‘Cunt’; and
- Britney Spears
to give you the White Trash Guide to Having a Baby…
Let’s Talk About Sex: the larval stage is a perfect time to start thinking about family planning
Tip 1: Fuck Early, Fuck Often
If you can bleed, you can breed; I read that on a toilet wall somewhere, so I figure it’s good enough a motto to live your life by. If god didn’t want you to think about babies until you’re in your 30s, then why did he make your junk fully operational at age 13? It can take anywhere between a single night and two decades to conceive, so why hedge your bets?
They say there are three stages of male-dom:
- Age 0-1: Discovering that you have a penis
- Age 2-14: Playing with said penis
- Age 15-135: Feeling an overwhelming desire to stick said penis somewhere
At some stage, however (usually around the 15-20 mark) most men start learning to exercise at least some level of control over these burning desires. The Trailer Alpha isn’t burdened by such inhibitions. Where there’s a hole, there’s a goal. This is the bogan way.
Tip 2: Share the Love
It was one of my more dubious share-housing experiences, but I once found myself living at the same address as a man. He was a man who owned one suit, and he wore it only for two occasions: Spring Carnival and court appearances; the latter almost always as a direct result of something he did at the former. Each Saturday night, he would come home and find me slumped in the ‘good’ chair, half asleep, hopelessly whoring myself to whatever pathetic morsels late night weekend TV had to offer.
This was his time to shine. To the backdrop of Parliament Question Time, Easy Step (TM) infomercials and Songs of Praise, he would gently regale me with stories of his sexual conquests; not just that night’s, but all-time. He told me what their names were, where he met them, where he shagged them and in what positions they did it. Every Saturday night, me and him, same thing. At no point during the whole time we lived together do I ever recall saying to him “Listen buddy, if it’s not too much trouble, can you do me a solid and give me a blow-by-blow breakdown of every girl you’ve ever fucked?” Yet still, the stories came…every Saturday night.
It was an oddly mutual relationship. He seemed to revel in my pathetic lifestyle, and the idea that I somehow wished to live vicariously through him and his ferocious sexual conquests. Meanwhile, I took a smug pleasure in knowing that 90% of what he said was total bullshit, and that he didn’t know I knew that.
Still, even if 10% of what he said was true – and I believe it probably was – then this peroxided, testosterone-laden, upturned-collared dipshit has spread enough seed to populate a boutique nation. So somewhere out there, tens of thousands of babies are being born as we speak. And if genetics mean anything, then at least some of them will grow up to bore future flatmates, late on Saturday nights, with stories of how many girls they fucked that night.
If you read the last bit and thought to yourself “Hmm, pretty sure I had sex with that guy” then you’re off to a good start. But don’t stop there. The only way to find that Mr Right, the man whose babies you want to have, is to bone as many Mr Unbelievably Wrongs as you can until you reach him. And if you eventually do find that special someone and discover he’s shooting blanks, you don’t have to worry because by this stage you should already have about 15 kids under your belt anyway. Bam!
This guy’s still in charge, right?
Tip 3: Prophylactics are for Prophyl-spastics
A friend’s drunken uncle once had me and my mates in raptures at a BBQ by announcing, loudly, that having sex with a condom was like having a shower with a raincoat on. We were 13.
If the government were serious about wanting you to wear condoms, they would have subsidised them and made them cheap. But what’s cheaper – a packet of condoms, or a packet of Winnie Blues?**
The pill makes you fat. I don’t even know if the pill technically passes as a prophylactic but… it makes you fat.
Tip 4: So you want to be financially secure first? I understand… that you’re a homo!
“You better not enter this decision lightly,” society warns you. “This baby’s not gonna pay for itself.”
“Like fuck it’s not!” is what your defiant reply should be.
If you reckon having a baby’s going to cost too much, then make your baby work for you!
Have you seen the size of the baby bonus***? And here’s the kicker: you don’t even have to spend it on the baby. You could buy plasma TVs, Monster Truck show tickets, you name it. Not only that, but there’s this place called Centrelink. I have no idea what they do, but I know that when you tell them you got a baby they pretty much hand out money for free. And you don’t have to spend that on the baby either – Snap!
Remember that reality show about the struggles of inner suburban women in their late 30s trying to raise a child on their graphic designer husband’s income while simultaneously running an online business selling bibs with John Hughes movie prints on them? No? That’s because it never fucking existed. People don’t want to watch that shit. Reality TV wants mums who drop their baby off at the emergency ward with a fake illness on a Saturday night so they can go clubbing. Reality TV wants dads who can’t be fagged going to the shops to buy nappies so they use an old copy of Babes n Boars magazine instead.
Reality TV wants you, And reality TV means PAYDIRT!
Kim Kardashian, Snookie, Jessica Simpson. All strong women, all trash, all worth a butt-load of money. And why have they got money? because they all have/have had their own reality TV shows. And why do they all have their own reality TV shows? Because they’re all breeders.
Babies sell, especially when their mum is white trash.
By contrast, consider this – Julia Gillard, Germaine Greer, Helen Mirren. All members of the uber-intellegensia and not a baby or reality TV show between them. Pathetic. I have no idea how much these women earn but I’m going to assume they’re all poor as fuck, the lot of them****. And why? Because they never had kids. What a bunch of idiots.
But you can outsmart them – you can. All’s you have to do is have sex with the next man you meet, then have his baby, and bang – you’ll make these women look utterly stupid. And how awesome would it be to make a (former) (Australian) Prime Minister and the (woman who played the) Queen (in a movie) look stupid, hey?
I have nothing else to offer for this blog post but the hilari-scary opening scene of the otherwise so-so movie ‘Idiocracy’. Watch it, think about it. Cry. We’re all fucked. Goodnight.
* Ultimately revealed to be the result of a mixup. ‘His girlfriend’ turned out to be my shoelaces. In fact, under scrutiny, he admitted he didn’t actually have a girlfriend
** Actually, a pack of Winnie Blues is significantly more expensive these days. But that’s not the point. The point is, why should you wear a condom just to make the government happy?
*** Please note baby bonus doesn’t exist anymore. Or maybe it does. I can’t keep up with this shit but either way, the government wants you to breed, so there’s always some bribe
**** May not be poor as fuck