I was out on a
date and this guy asked me if I had any kids. “None that
I know of,” I say, half in jest ‘cause I’ve
always wanted to say that to a guy.
He left his drink
on the counter, hightailed it outta there. That was seriously
rude, wasn’t it? I mean guys could have millions a kids
out there and not even know it, right? But us women, we know.
So, I finished
my drink, got to thinkin’ ‘bout whether we do know
after all. Seriously. I mean, the last time I was abducted by
aliens, I could have sworn they done stole my eggs. Every last
one. Haven’t bled since then. Got me a real nice playpen
now case you’re interested. But seriously. Alien babies.
I think they call ‘em hybrids or somethin’. Star
children. Sounds kinda pretty, don’t it? Then again, just
imagine millions of them alien babies all cryin’ out for
their momma at once.
Maybe that’s
why my boobs is so sore and all full up with milk—’cause
all my alien babies a screamin’ for their momma’s
titties out there in space.
