Three months ago I got a letter forwarded from one of my old addresses about a pending child support/custody case. I found this suspicious because I don’t usually jizzbomb slimy pussies, nor do I live in Nebraska, but I decided to look into it. Upon further investigation, I began to start piecing the puzzle of this riddle wrapped in a mystery together. First of all, the only degenerate redneck I’ve ever came in (on her period) and had unprotected sex with (off her period) was Becca. We all know about Becca. Since her relationship with me evaporated like a fart in a hurricane, I assumed the rest of her bi-polar flatulence crop-dusted another unlucky (male) sperm donor.
However, nothing in my life is ever easy to admit, because I got Becca pregnant.
I didn’t just get her pregnant with any fast swimmer, I slam-fucked a reality stupidstar into her womb.
I knew Becca had two kids with a tattoo artist named Cody and lives at her parent’s house in Virginia with both little shit machines, but I never knew that she hid our previous love child from the world–such a famous bastion of American culture who happened to share our collective genetics and precious intellect.
How did this happen?
I’ll tell you how it happened, dear reader. A couple sausage melts at the Waffle House and I was smitten. In a moment of weakness, I made love to Becca in the very same trailer she was conceived in and I felt her convulse and barf her Schlitz malt liquor all over my torso (she might or might not have been awake). I knew right away that she was pregnant with our little Alana… I mean, “Honey Boo Boo”.
I had no idea that Becca was fertile but I assumed that she was a responsible sexual partner and took certain precautions so unplanned pregnancies wouldn’t be in our discussion(s) of the future. Apparently my faith in her common sense was usurped by her poor choices to keep our retard child, and I guess I was now a father (and closet martyr of said child). Who could have guessed that my alcoholic genes mixed with Becca’s poisoned vaginal juice and whorish womb would happen to create the most infamous redneck calling card in the history of reality television; a female Eric Cartman made out of female discharge and particles you would find underneath a Nascar racetrack porta-potty?
The fact that CPS hasn’t been taken this sloppy tub of Country Crock away from the abusive, malnourished manatee that birthed her in order to give her half a chance at living a happy life is indicative of how far American society has fallen. As a newly identified (concerned) father, I contacted Michael Lohan (Lindsay Lohan’s father) and the Reverend Al Sharpton to help me save my little Honey Boo Boo, but I fear it’s too late for her.