i assume i had at least one in me. i woulda been able to produce ... at least a SINGLE kid. so ... what would it have been like. the kid of me and the special lady friend. would our kid have been adorable and/or vivacious? like the special lady friend? or ungrateful and petty, like me. talkative like she is when she gets chatty like she gets? or taciturn like i get when i don't feel like communicating with the world cause it let me down for the umpteenth time. forgiving like her or vindictive like me?

would it have been brave, dauntless and unafraid like she can be when she doesn't get in her own way? or would it have been timid, skittish and flinchy like me in my worst moments. those moments when i want to withdraw from the rest of society. would he/she have had blue eyes like hers or green like mine.

it's too bad i'll never know. it's too bad these questions are hypothetical/academic/moot. it's too bad i just slipped and did the splits so hard i just ruptured all the things i need to procreate.

yeah, it's REAL too bad. i just did the splits HARD even though i predicted someone would do it and warned everyone else to be careful. i saw the little foil butter pat lid lying face down on the tiles right in front of the bus cart. i asked steve to pick it up before someone slipped on it. he said 'sure thing, (squirrel),' then went right back to watching the hawks game. not a minute later, i was hustling to the front, left foot shot out from underneath me while right foot remained more or less planted, and i swear to god that tender part up in that general area where legs cheeks and reproductive organs all kinda sorta are in the same neck of the woods ruptured so hard i'm at the very least sterile.

i could very well ALSO be impotent. who knows. i do know that now's not the time for a potency check, cause there's no fucking way i'm in the mood for any of that kinda hanky panky tomfoolery. if i checked right now, it's possible i'd get a false negative.

i hurt too much down there. the groinal trauma, the crotchal distress. holy crap. wow. and you can see where i slid, where my left foot was. there's a butter slick that's like a snail slime trail. one which caused me to be walking like a goddamn rodeo clown, if i could even walk, which i can't. a rodeo clown that just got flipped on its ass a few times. jesus my balls.

in one fell swoop, denied the possibility of children. if the (squirrel family) name is carried on, it won't be my loins that do the carrying. it's either the fruit of glen's loins or the name dies with our generation. cause there's no way i can have kids now. not now that i am dead certain i just fucked up my epididymis. and i think my vas deferens is in irreparable tatters. the damage almost certainly reached up into where my seminal vesicles are, all the way up there. i don't even know if those things are where the ... you know ... the ... reproductive stuff comes from, but it stands to reason. (look at jimmy. laughing like that, unashamed. shame on him.)

if someone wandered in and offered me a million dollars to cross my legs, i wouldn't be able to do it. that's how bad this is. i gotta just stand here propped up against where we keep the coffee urns and menus. i think i might barf before all's said and done. 

nope, no kids for this gangly gentleman. if the special lady friend wants kids (and she does), she'll hafta look elsewhere. i won't be able to stop her, cause ... well, i ain't THAT selfish. she'll find someone, go off, have kids, be happy. i'll be left wondering.

what kinda dad would i have been. attentive or involved in my own sagas? affectionate or so remote the kid'd never know where precisely he/she stood in my estimation? very involved or could give two shits? would i have been one of those cool dads who all the kid's friends said 'hey, he's one cool dad you got there.' or would all the kid's friends say 'nah, let's not go over to your house anymore, your dad's ... weird.'

would i have been the kind of father my father was, or the kind of father his father was. (i'd rather be the kind my father was. nothing against grandpa. he just wasn't as good a father, by all accounts.) would i make the same overly permissive, indulgent mistakes i see parents make here, or would i have learned that a big thing bout parenting is making sure the kid knows you can't fling marinara sauce at the dishwasher and have it be funny. (nor is it acceptable to break all the crayons then ask for another box of crayons.) would i have spared the rod, spoiled the child or just the opposite.  

ow. ow ow ow ow ow. the pain's not going away. owowowowow.

(jason said he heard it too. heard me ... splitting. couldn't possibly be true, no way in hell my nut rupture made a sound, but cording to HIM, anyway, it sounded like duct tape getting torn off the roll. a good long length of duct tape. rrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrip. oh shit my nuts.)

i won't ever experience the joy of picking out names. i got some candidates, though. might as well go through 'em since i kinda can't do much else, considering i can't even stand UP straight. (balls hurt so bad that i ...) but if it was a girl kid i woulda entertained names like lulu. or mabel. or agnes. bea. maybe bea. molly, rose, grace, oona, tess, nora, hazel, phoebe, lily.

and if it was a boy kid, milo or felix or ben. brian, david, dizzy, john, otis, quinn. there was a phase in high school when i was convinced i had to name my boy kid famous amos. luckily that was only a phase, one i soon grew out of. though having a kid named famous amos is not without its charms.

i spose i could adopt. that's a possibility. if i did, i'd insist on a chinese kid though. always wanted a chinese kid, for some reason. they're always cute, chinese kids. or a black kid. that'd be awesome too. (when glen and i were in grade school, our parents tried to adopt a black kid. went all the way through the process til they were ... finalists, i guess. glen and i were looking forward to it. we had all kindsa big plans for that kid. we didn't get him, though. he went to another family.)

would i properly inspire the kid, encourage the kid, or would i somehow, unintentionally, inadvertently, instill in him/her the fear. the fear of humiliation, of failure, of trying anything. fear so bad it wound up paralyzing. i never tried a damn thing til well into my thirties, so look at me now, can't even get some moron to clean up a butter pat slick even though i sign his fucking paycheck, and more importantly, what would i have done with my kid on sunny beautiful warm weekends.

in a week, the special lady friend and i will be living next to a big city park. is that where i woulda taken the kid that now can never exist? taken the kid that will never be to fly a kite or something? or play bocce ball with the croatians/italians? or throw a frisbee at a dog. that's always a good park-time activity. frisbees at dogs. 

there's a hot dog stand near the park. they do good dogs there. i would have liked to take my son/daughter there. my dad took me to dog stands so often when i was a kid i got to know the owners' names. i remember those times fondly. the saturday and sunday afternoons, lazing on a picnic table with a big bag of grease and a can of coke. (granted, i don't think i ever got to finish a dog. or the fries/chips that came with. it's not for nothing the old man was called the finisher.) but yes. i remember fondly. i wonder if that's the kinda father i woulda been. a spare six bucks in my pocket, take the kid to the nearest hot dog stand for a bite of lunch while mom gets some precious peace and quiet time for herself.

and this. this restaurant here. this splendid inconsistent disaster of a place. this one day would have all been his/hers. mostly it'd belong to the kid of jimmy, but ... part of it woulda belonged to mine. i'd put it in my will. i'd be sure to do that fore i kicked the bucket, bought the farm. this would be his/her ... bequeathment. to him/her, this i would BEQUEATH. what a great parting gift that would be, huh. 

i will never know. cause steve was too busy watching a sport he doesn't know shit about in the first place. hockey. since when's he give a shit about hockey. he thinks they play QUARTERS, not PERIODS. what a moron. man oh man. does this ever hurt. i need an ice pack for my balls. christ my testicles.

tomorrow, first thing, you better believe i'm gonna write him up even though i usually am so chicken shit i make jimmy do the writing up. you better believe that if you rob me of the ability to have biological children of my very own, i'm gonna at LEAST write up a thing you hafta sign swearing you'll never do it again.