Children for Mr. Leary
I’m at the punch bowl wondering when they’ll figure out how to put Stephen Hawking on a unicycle when Denis Leary grabs my crotch and whispers “I’m going to rape your children.”
“Jesus!” I say, knocking his hand away. “I don’t have children.”
“That’s not necessary,” he says, and puts his hand back.
“What the hell are you doing?”
He gets close to me again and whispers in my ear.
I wake up in a cold sweat and desperately reach for my wife.
“Honey-” I say, “Honeybun, we need to have children.”
“What are you talking about?” she says, half asleep.
“We need to start now,” I say, everything becoming clear. “Denis Leary needs them.”