The Bachelor's Baby

Here we have a well adjusted gentleman with a nice life who is informed by a former lover - read: tramp - that he is a poppa. So what does he do? Goes off the non-shallow end and gets all sappy and parental over the little carpet crawler. Naturally, many problems arise and not all of them from the crumb grabber either, although he was bad enough. 2 a.m. wakeup calls from a high decibel voicebox; splattered, smeared, at one time completely edible, not to mention costly, food slathered unevenly over, formerly, perfectly usable household furnishings; dull, uninspired trips to the grocer for jar after jar of future $24.95 per yard carpet greasing material and other assorted 'after the house is wrecked' clean-up articles. All this plus the money this guy blew for toys, clothes, and court costs: never mind all the bills he will assume as the brat ages. What was he thinking? Why would any sane person take on such a monumental effort? Think of all the playoff games missed due to mopping baby droppings off a $3000 home theater system. The poor slob reaches his all time low when he films home movies of the tiny cutie then sits around ohh-ing and ahh-ing when he could have been watching "Hot Stewardesses at 50,000 Feet". This was a good film, but I was a nervous wreck before it was half over. If you are strange and actually love these noisy, expensive little pests then this is your picture: if not, you have been warned.