I’m 51 years old, and never had kids (or, as the cliché goes, none that I know of).  That’s mainly because the ex-wife didn’t want any, and I didn’t really care.

Sometimes people will ask, “Don’t you wish you had kids?”

That’s a good question. The answer is: no.

Why? Let’s say I had one offspring. For pronoun ease, let’s say I had a son.

That boy would be born angelic, as if spawned from some kind of bizarre supernatural spermatozoa. As he came out of the chute, an eerie but obvious presence would be present in the delivery room. The doctor and nurses would be really creeped out, but would continue with the procedure because they’re paid well and want to witness the mysterious miracle.

The kid would be a prodigy of which prodigies have never seen. By age two, he’d be playing twelve musical instruments, reading on a college level, and hanging out with Neil deGrasse Tyson (and it’s cool that Neil would change his diaper).

I’d quickly grow to resent the bastard (I use “bastard” figuratively here, assuming he was born in wedlock).

By age four, he’d he a neurosurgeon or important diplomat or rock star. I’d want to be a good dad, but his rapid achievements would just make me even more bitter about my own failings. I’d quickly slide into a vicious cycle of cocaine, heroin, crack, poppers, and fast food.

By age eight, when he’s President of the World, I’d slash my wrists with a rusty pen knife in the gutter under some broken-down bridge (which he’ll repair now that he’s President of the World).

So that’s why I don’t have a kid. His awesomeness would be my demise.