Pull up a chair, Readers, it's lessons from Shonda time again.
For some reason, I've been blogging about getting it on and, moreover, the subsequent reproduction that it causes lately. It all started with Bristol Palin and the big no-no she and her hot piece of Alaskan tail Levi Johnston got into. Well, it didn't really start there. You know I've been a weaselly perv for many a years now, that just sparked all the writing. Then I talked to all you teenagers out there about the perks of having a baby at a young age. Mollie did it and now she has a mini nanny. I waited until I was 24 to start having kids, which is like 40 here in Oklahoma. Seriously, my aunt Janet began calling me an old maid when I was 20. To be fair, she and her bunch are more fertile than prime Ohio farm ground. Anyways, my responsibility (or luck, whatev) really paid off. While I'm slaving over six freakin' loads of laundry, Mollie's watching tv as her daughter Hannah loads the dryer and pours milk for the smaller children. It's bullshit.
Well, I figured I might as well keep the raunchy theme going, right. Today I want to talk to you about birth control in its most effective means.
Now, in order for you to take this sure fire route, you must have either already reproduced or have access to a kid you can borrow. I repeat, there must be small children.
I can tell you, Brilliant Readers, that nothing slows down the procreation like a toddler's head peeking over the side of the bed just as you start rubbing on your partner's nether regions.
"Momma, there's a monster under my bed," he whispers as he shimmies into bed and rests between the two of you.
But, you don't give up there. After all, the two of you used to be quite the rock stars in this regard and you are motivated to kick off the reunion tour. You lay like motionless rocks until the little angel is sleeping soundly, then you sneak off to his home. It, after all, is free.
Just as you slip into the Thomas the Train sheets (this is totally hypothetical), you hear a soft cry in the room of the baby. The soft cry quickly turns into a shrill scream. You sigh, leave your handsome spouse in the big kid's room and go to soothe the little kid.
Of course, for some odd reason, it takes twice as long to comfort him as it normally does. You rock and sing, whisper and hug, but the child reminds you there is no rest for the weary and no love for the randy.
By the time you perform the small miracle of hypnotising the kiddo, you creep back into the toddler's room to find a snoring husband.
So, there you, Readers. If you don't want to get pregnant, just have kids.