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Daddy, That’s a Bunch of Baloney

Folks, I need help. But not in quite the way you’re going to think of first. I just got a message in my inbox — obvious spam, from the subject line:

‘MY DADDY IS MY FIRST MAN‘

It’s likely some creepy, icky incest love thing, right? And so, you’re expecting something gross and disgusting out of me — I suppose I don’t blame you, really. I mean, christ — look around this place. This ain’t Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, that’s for sure.

But that wasn’t my first thought. And — since I didn’t actually look at the email before deleting it — I didn’t have a second thought. So, I’m stuck with the first thing that popped into my head, which was…:

‘It’s O-S-C-A-R.‘

Ahem.

‘MY DADDY IS MY SECOND MAN‘

(Oh, I’m going to hell, aren’t I?)

‘It’s M-A-Y-E-R.‘

(What the hell — I’ve come this far.)

‘MY DADDY’S MY MAN EVERY DAY…

Be-cause my daddy has a way with B-O-L-O-G-N-A!‘

Yeah, all right, fine — it did get creepy there at the end, didn’t it? Dammit. I swear it was just the tune running through my head — I didn’t even think about it, until I wrote it down.

Eh, screw it. It’s either a horrible, punny, sick joke of some kind, or I’m reciting ad jingles from when I was five. Either way, I need some serious fricking help. Maybe I’ll find some at the comedy show tonight — but I doubt it. Happy hump day, kids.

(And I don’t mean ‘hump day’ in a B-O-L-O-G-N-A kind of way, either. This may not be Mr. Rogers’ neighborhood, but it’s not Michael Jackson’s, either. Move along, there, skippy.)