More than 60 percent of athletes have baby mommas, with NFL running back Travis Henry accounting for 40 percent of that 60 percent. Your baby momma is not only an incredible pain in the ass, but she’s also part of a group of people solely responsible for the decline of American global hegemony as we know it. It’s true. I skimmed over it in a Pat Buchanan book once. You see, the steady erosion of American values and the treasured American can-do spirit can be traced directly to the steady rise in single-parent families. Without a father to guide them, many children lack the love and support to develop into smart, responsible members of society. And who are these single parents recklessly raising children without a gentle, caring dad around? You got it: baby mommas. They not only harass you, but also hurt your child by failing to provide any sort of useful father figure. And that is tragic.
Try as you might to avoid your baby momma(s), dealing with her (them) is inevitable, especially if you lacked the foresight to rig a court-ordered DNA test. You’re locked in now, just like Tom Brady. What will the monthly phone call from your baby momma be like? Read below for a glimpse into your future. And remember: don’t call her. She’ll call you!
(phone rings)
You: Uh, hello?
Baby Momma: Is this you?
You: Uh . . . no. It’s not me. This is . . . uh . . . Priest Holmes.
BM: I know it’s you, so you can quit faking it any time now.
You: Oh. Oh, it’s you! I’m sorry. But I’ve been getting lots of sales calls from Verizon recently, and I’ve been trying like heck to discourage them.
BM: Why can’t you just return my calls? Am I really so horrible that you have to avoid me at all costs?
(five minutes of silence)
You: I’m sorry.
(five minutes of silence)
You: So, how’s little Jimmy doing?
BM: Johnny.
You: Johnny! Yeah! How is the little chip off the old block?
BM: He misses you.
(five minutes of silence)
BM: He’s growing up fast, you know.
You: That’s great. That’s really great.
(five minutes of silence)
You: Is he, like, walking and stuff?
BM: Oh, yeah! Walking. Talking. We went to the zoo yesterday and he absolutely loved it. And I took him on this carousel that was also there. At first, he was a little scared, but then he really got excited and started bouncing up and down on the horse and . . . (you drift off into a sexual daydream about another person for the next twenty minutes) and when we got back from Albany, I think he was happy to be home. It’s nice to get out of the house, but then it’s always nice to come home. You know? Hello? Hello?
You: Oh, hey! Yeah! Yeah, animal crackers are great.
BM: Jesus, you weren’t even listening. Honestly, I don’t know why I bother calling.
You: Oh, I know why you’re calling.
BM: You know, that is such a typical remark. I didn’t even bring that up. In fact, not only do I have to bust my ass raising our child alone, but then I have to jump through hoops every month just to get you on the goddamn phone so I can beg for a lousy $1,500. Which, by the way, doesn’t even begin to cover the cost of day care, or diapers, or health insurance . . .
You: Hey, you’re lucky I can pay you that kind of money. A lot of baby daddies out there aren’t professional athletes. It’s nice to have a man who brings home the bacon, isn’t it?
BM: Your last check bounced. Ass.
You: I told you, I have a very lucrative real estate investment in the Florida Everglades. Lot of liquid cash tied up in that.
BM: Listen to me. I can’t afford to have a lawyer chasing you around. It’s cost me more than I’ve received back from you. I’m tired of this. I’m begging you, from one human being to another, to help us. Please. You have a separate life. I get it. You don’t want to be part of this? Fine. That’s your decision. But at least give your son a chance to have a good life. Please?
(ten minutes of silence)
BM: Hello? Are you there?
You: Can you run that back by me again? The reception in the casino is going in and out.
BM: Oh, goddammit.
(end of call)
As you can see, those baby mommas can get awfully dramatic. I’d say you handled it well.
Because no penis is an island: your guide to cheating.
Some athletes decide to bite the bullet and live with their baby mommas, or, as normal people call them, wives. Let’s say you decided to do the right thing and went and got yourself married. Good for you. I happen to be married myself. In fact, I’m a loving and faithful husband, and I am a devoted father. I’m like this because I’ve found it profoundly rewarding on a spiritual level to have a caring, trusting family unit. But let’s be honest. It ain’t like I’m flooded with alternative options. You, on the other hand, have any number of salacious, tawdry affairs at the tips of your fingers. There’s no reason you can’t go out there and cheat on your wife repeatedly for my vicarious enjoyment. Remember: you owe me.
In fact, if some of the more uneventful episodes of The Sopranos are any indication, you can even get your wife to subconsciously agree to your constant betrayals. How’s that, you say? Hey, women aren’t stupid. (Cameron Diaz excepted.) They know full well the temptations that face you, the hardworking athlete, out there on the road. But many women are willing to let the occasional dalliance slide in exchange for certain “lifestyle requirements.” And here they are. Please note that there are many of them. You pay for a hooker in more ways than one!
? SUV
? Sports car
? Labradoodle
? New piece of jewelry every month with at least one three-carat precious stone (opals don’t count)
? Personal massage therapist she will have an affair with for seven years without you knowing or even suspecting
? Fifty new pairs of shoes a month
? $50,000 a month in “flash money”