I attended an ante-natal appointment today with my girlfriend. In just four weeks time, we will both be squeezing out a tiny bundle of joy. While she is lying in the maternity ward giving birth to our son or daughter (I don’t mind which, so long as it isn’t both), I will be in jail, excreting the packet of heroin I ingested shortly before my incarceration. When our toil is over, I am certain that both deliveries will bring a smile to my face. Although I am disappointed at missing the birth of my child, the saddest thing of all is that a cluster of medics will have the privilege of gawping at my girlfriend’s gaping pussy, a sight I have only dreamed of. Thus far, I have only managed to fit four fingers up her. Once the baby has fallen out, however, I’ll be able to fit ten fingers up there and clap my hands together inside her vaginal cavity. When it dawned on me, several weeks ago, that there was a very real possibility of me missing the birth of my baby, I put it to my girlfriend that we should choose someone to take on the role of dad while she was in the hospital. This specially appointed person would get to witness the birth and cradle the baby as if it were their own. They would also get to choose a name for it and look after it while mummy recovered from her ordeal. It couldn’t just be any old dodger of course - the surrogate father would have to be carefully selected to ensure they had all the right attributes that such a momentous task required. In view of the foregoing, I decided there was only one way in which to sensibly choose my replacement - we would auction the right to be at the birth on Ebay, with the highest bidder taking the baby prize. For some reason, my girlfriend objected to this, which puzzled me greatly. She didn’t mind strange men staring at her pussy when she was a stripper. What made this situation any different?
Although I don’t mind accompanying my girlfriend to the ante-natal clinic, my presence here is superfluous. Ever since I prematurely shot my load, eight months ago, I have been surplus to requirements. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to take an interest in my child, of course - I can’t wait to play football with him and take him to his first strip club when he’s older. (And if he’s a she, get her a job there.) In its current unborn state, however, the baby interests me about as much as the English cricket team. My girlfriend has just emerged from the weigh-in to inform me that she is now 11 stone, three stone heavier than she was at the start of the year. Now I’m no expert on babies, but there’s no way that mini-me weighs three stone. Women seem to use pregnancy as an excuse to binge on every kind of food known to man, as well as lumps of coal, and then blame it on ‘cravings’, a phenomenon which, to my knowledge, has never been scientifically proven. Take Britney Spears for instance - she’s turned into such a plumper that the media are speculating that she might be having twins. She’s certainly eating for three, anyway. Still, if my girlfriend is a bit on the tubby side after she’s given birth, that’s fine with me. The less attractive she looks, the less chance there is of anyone fucking her while I’m in jail. Though judging by the state of the pregnant women I’ve seen in Aberdeen, most of whom were encountered in the visiting area at Craiginches, men really will fuck anything. The only way to stop my girlfriend from going forth and multiplying would be to fit a chastity belt. In her current shape, however, I don’t think it would reach around her waist. I guess I’ll just have to make do with wearing it instead. In view of where I’m headed, it would be fair to say that my need is greater than hers.


PS - Last week I wrote a blog about whether fat people's shit was bigger than thin people's shit. The definitive answer to this question can now be found here.