Hi. My name is Toby Joe Boudreaux. I’m gonna be a pappy.

My wife, Michele, being unfathomably old already and seeing the label “Crazy Cat Lady” screeching towards her, asked if I would consider politely knocking her ass up.

I am, above all else, a generous gent, obsessed with satiating the needs of all women nearby, and therefore could hardly refuse such a request.

Hence, progeny.

Seeds sown. Metaphors uttered.

I’m quite excited to have a kid, I must say.

I’d hate to disparage the place, and I prefer to adhere to the “Dance with that who brung ya” rule, but my time in Georgia taught me very little about fatherhood – or fathers, for that matter.

I learned that at least one addiction is requisite, and that a firm one-to-three vice-to-arrest correlation must be maintained at all times. I learned that jobs aren’t really that important, and careers are for yankees. I learned that it’s imperative to leave town before your offspring can pick you out of a lineup.

Luckily, I refuse to learn from others. As Michele’s own father taught me to ask, “What good can come of that?”

I imagine our child will crap a lot, and throw up, and cry. It’ll have a pasty white belly and tiny genitals. The costs will be significant, but so will the joy. And so on and so forth.

Lately, friends have been breeding. It’s not unlike 1999, when everyone I knew was starting a company.

I missed out on that boat – probably because it required knowledge more complex than General Weiner Usage.

This time, I’m on board.

Daddy on board.