Jim’s divorce was the best thing that could have happened to him. The only problem was that he still had feelings for The Ex.

Two years after they parted ways, Jim bumped into The Ex at his favorite watering hole. She struck up a conversation. He was receptive. They left the bar together, rekindled an old flame.

About month later, The Ex had news: “I’m pregnant.” Jim was elated.

Seven months passed. The Ex dropped the load. A healthy baby boy with a strong resemblance to The Ex. Everyone was happy. Jim didn’t seem to notice that the timing was a little off. A passing thought: Why doesn’t the baby look anything like me? But babies change fast. Jim dismissed the thought.

Two years later. The Ex never went back to work. Jim got stuck supporting her and the baby. The boy got bigger. Changed every day. Yet no resemblance to Jim. Doubt crept into his head. Only one way to be sure.

The blood test revealed that Jim was not the baby’s father.

Who was baby daddy? Good question. Jim snooped around. Discovered that The Ex had been fooling around with an unemployed ex-con before he hooked up with her again. Abortion was out of the question. She knew that Jim was still into her. And he was gainfully employed. The Ex planned the chance encounter at the bar. Created the illusion that the baby was Jim’s.

Jim confronted The Ex with facts. Told her that he was going to sue her for all the money she’d sucked out of him for the past two years. The Ex filed for bankruptcy. Jim never saw a dime.

Even worse than being bamboozled for his money was the fact that the baby’s first word was “daddy.”

Tags: divorce · love · marriage · parenting · relationships

The ringing doorbell caught the old woman by surprise. She wasn’t expecting any company–especially from three gypsy women and an infant. Hesitantly, the old woman opened her door. The three gypsies greeted the old lady as if they’d known her for years and entered.

Two of the visitors engaged the old woman in conversation. “Look at little Maria,” said one of the gypsies as she shoved the infant into the old woman’s arms. “Hasn’t she gotten big?”

The old woman searched her memories for the strangers in her home, but had no recollection of any of them. When the infant started crying, one of the gypsy women declared that her menstrual cycle was starting, excused herself and proceeded to the restroom.

Several minutes later, the menstruating gypsy returned to the living room. One of the gypsies retrieved the baby from the old woman. The gypsies thanked the old lady for her hospitality and left as casually as they entered.

As the gypsies drove away in their nondescript minivan, the old woman discovered that her bedroom had been ransacked and at least $15,000 worth of heirloom jewelry had been heisted from her jewelry box. She would never see the gypsies, or her jewelry, again.

Tags: conned · gypsies · parenting · theft

It was two o’clock–time to kick out all the drunks, clean the place up and get the hell out of dodge. It was a task I took on in a most expeditious manner at the end of every shift. The faster we could get every customer out the door and lock it up, the faster we could get underway.

On this particular night, the only thing hindering me from my goal of leaving the club was some drunk broad sniffing around the outer perimeter of the dance floor. “Can I help you find something?” I asked.

“Ohmygod,” she slurred. “I can’t find my friggin’ keys. How the hell am I gonna get home?”

Keys are one of the most commonly misplaced things inside of a nightclub, next to sobriety and sensibility. But unlike sobriety and sensibility, keys have a way of turning up sooner or later for the drunk in question. In the case of the broad standing in front of me, losing her keys was probably a good thing. She was a head-on collision waiting to happen. “Don’t you have a friend you can crash with tonight? I can call you later if my crew finds a set of keys.”

“My baby,” she blurted as she struggled to maintain her balance. “He’s in my apartment all alone.”

I held back my shock and revulsion. It was none of my business, but I asked anyway: “How old is your boy?”

“He’s almost 18 months old. And he’s gonna freak out if he wakes up and I’m not there!”

I looked at the drunk broad standing in front of me and thanked the man upstairs that my mother wasn’t some boozed-out bimbo who checked in her sobriety and sensibility at the front door of a gin joint like mine.

Before heading out the door, the crew and I had a drink together. One for that abandoned baby, and one more for the road.

Tags: drunk · nightclub · parenting

There’s a guy I know who lives in a shady part of town. The other night, he woke up to the sound of some little shithead breaking into his car. He looked out his window, verified that it was indeed his car that was being violated, quickly got dressed and ran outside to confront the criminal.

The car burglar saw my acquaintance coming and ran across the street and jumped into the passenger seat of a getaway car. This acquaintance of mine–who fears no one–opened the passenger door and began pummeling the car burglar with both of his fists. The kid definitely got a good beating.

While the car burglar was being punched, he yelled out to the driver, “Come on, mom! Hurry up and drive!” The car burglar’s mother, in fear for her criminal son’s safety, punched the gas and sped off.

Tags: burglar · parenting