Last night, over dinner, a friend who shares custody of a year-old daughter with her mother, an estranged girlfriend, told me that he’s done it again. By it, I mean had unprotected sex with and impregnated a woman just before their relationship pulled a Hindenburg.
“She told me she was barren,” he said.
“There are other concerns” (translation: Dude, you’re lucky she didn’t have five types of flaming crotch rot) I pointed out, shaking my head.
The punchline was that when we got in his car so he could drive me home and he turned his CD player on, the first thing we heard was David Byrne warbling, “From the moment of conception...”