I understand why you’re so thrilled. You have sustained a disability, and now you don’t have to pay child support. That’s what I told you and your child’s mother when you appeared at my desk for a child support conference. Far be it from me to judge, but your reaction to the news—bursting from your chair and dry humping the corner of my desk while touting “Ah yeah, I’m goin’ make more babies,”—was perhaps a bit overkill.
I can’t help but wonder the thought process that led to the decision to dry hump my desk. Surely, you briefly considered a litany of celebratory options before ultimately settling on dry humping government office property. You could have simply said “Thank you,” and exited my cubicle cordially. At the very least, the celebration could have been more subtle. You could have exhibited a nondescript fist pump; you could have sought a high-five from a stranger in the waiting area; you could have asked me politely to indulge you in a chest bump. Instead, the words that appeared in the scrolling marquee in your ecstatic mind read: This. Is. Awesome. I gotta’ dry hump something. That much is clear. But what? Crap! I need to dry hump before my emotions recede. Okay, what is crotch level? I can’t flaunt my junk in front of my baby’s momma. She’ll head butt my balls. Wait, the conference officer’s desk is perfect. Yeah, baby!
And not only that, you jubilantly proclaimed your fervent desire to go ape shit doing real humping, on live people. Great! I’m glad you consider your disability determination to be your golden ticket to hump your way through this town. Most practical people would be saddened that they were too enfeebled to work. Not you. You dry hump desks, and then make an arbitrary public service announcement that you’ll spread your seeds like a dandelion in a windstorm.
I must admit, however, that your athletic dry humping sheds serious doubt on your alleged disability. I’m no drying humping expert, nor am I any sort of crotch doctor, but those pelvic thrusts were both rapid and powerful. My computer monitor was rattling, and my phone receiver nearly dislodged from its cradle. It was, in fact, slightly impressive? I’m not saying you’re the Kobe Bryant of dry humping or anything, but to a lay person, I think you’re at least capable of mopping the floors at a high school.
The one thing that certainly is not debatable is the mettle it takes to dry hump a tax payer financed desk within a court facility. You were only a stone’s throw away from several irritable sheriffs, and high-powered judges, no less. The sheriffs have handguns for god’s sakes. For all I know, they’re ordered to open fire upon even the slightest suspicion of dry humping before it spirals out of control. Clearly, consequences did not cramp your decision to dry hump. And if they did, you determined it was worth the risk. Furthermore, your proclamation to “make more babies” was equally bold. It’s like your dry humping was a middle finger, and your decree was a hearty “fuck you.”
I can only imagine what you’re up to these days. You’re most likely making good on your promise/threat. Since I contribute to a 401(k) and have a reasonable health care deductible, I’ll likely continue my employment with the court. It doesn’t seem altogether unlikely that one of your sons, or several of your sons, will wind up in the same chair you once graced. But if their judgment is favorable too, their enthusiasm will be squashed when I casually point to the blunt sign now hanging above my desk: NO DRY HUMPING.
If your sons want to “go out and make more babies,” more power to them. That’s job security, and more contributions to the 401(k).