There may be only one Highlander!

While I might have given the impression that there would be a little tornado of fire, fact, sarcasm and raw-thigh power named Megatron in the future, it is highly unlikely.

First, as the title states, there may be only one. For a mini-hurricane of genetics to burst forth from me, that would mean I must die, such is the law of the Highlander. Not cool with that. Ravage my vag, shame on me; ravage my life, shame on you and me for not planning better, really.

Next, I have no intention of creating life until I stop calling them/it "crotch spawn." Not all children are crotch spawn so I will quickly define the term for you.
Crotch spawn, n. - a tiny, genetically human, always parasitic, life form created from an egg. Any beings that come from and adopt the evolutionary traits of drama llama parents would  be classified as CS. Tiny ones that are constantly whining, crying, tattling, moist and touching everything, ungrateful, joyous receivers of participation trophies for picking their noses, running around stores unattended with chariot-carts of fire smashing into everything like a 40-ish pound ping pong ball on crack, and those struggling against leashes like the slaves of Egypt dragging blocks to build the pyramids are crotch spawn, also sometimes referred to as crotch critters. They were made, not birthed and they must be dealt with like a plague.

Finally, and I will build on this in the coming days, I lie and/or tell the unfortunate truth in the most direct (douche) way possible, mostly to CS to mess with them. Creative inquisition and logic development are building blocks to a solid, rounded childhood. I intend to Godzilla through those building blocks whenever possible, why? Because it's fun to mess with people, especially critters who don't realize I'm pulling stuff out of my ass. My child would be a weapon to use against other children, and particularly crotch spawn.

Tonight's entry: Santa (for this example, the mini-person is a boy, makes pronouns easier, is not an indication of preference)
I will not teach Megatron about Santa. Given the genetic intelligence possible, he would probably use wrapping paper, wrapping style, deceptive breathing techniques and handwriting analysis to figure it out at age 4 as I did. Then, he would undoubtedly keep his mouth shut for several years to cash in on the goods. Hellz no, Santa is not getting the credit for the sweet ass presents I pick out and buy because I know little Megatron so well. Also, it's just weird to teach as child that an old fat man gets to watch him while he sleeps, break into the house once a year, leave stuff, steal food and molest footwear. And we teach them to not take things from strangers? Hello mixed, creepy, message. So, no Megatron Caliber, there isn't a Santa. And please, tell all your friends and classmates, someone should be honest with the spawn after all and protect them from St. Dick.

And that is why there may be only one.

Lie of the night: If you feed Frosted Flakes to a tiger every day for a year, he'll learn to talk and play sports like Tony the Tiger. Miss a single night night, it will be mentally disabled forever and unable to love.