Times running out!

My parents are in their 80's. They raised 5 kids under the auspices of the Catholic church. Despite this, they can actually be fun to be with - except when a close relative excretes a toadling - then they have full blown baby rabies that lasts for several years until about a year after the screamonster learns how not to shit itself.

Once a niece or a grand daughter has succeeded in placing the fetid hormone bomb near their nostrils, my parents are awash with righteous overbearing breeder behavior and they are doomed to play mega - breeder bingo for a period of time until the brat could conceivably kill a small creature and eat it raw in order to sustain itself.

My parents have just come down from just such a bad trip about 6 months ago that started when my sister in law decided to spawn after her 5 year breast cancer anniversary. After they passed through a several year stint salivating over my brother's sprogling, I was actually able to have a non controversial discussion with them. They even invited me to stop by on occasion and offer me a moderately priced scotch whiskey instead of brutally shaming me for not going to church, not being a married breeder and for not being a doting uncle person to my unwanted nephew.

So now after this short period of comparative bliss, my niece is preggo and will be pooping out a mass of animate tissue soon - this after marrying a guy that already has three of those from a former mistake.

In the past year I purchased a classic sports car in hopes that I may be able to share in the testosterone enhanced male bonding experience of auto sports and mechanics which my father has enjoyed for many years. My mechanic has been sporodically assembling my sportscar for the past year and I have been looking forward to pulling into my fathers driveway as he gazes in abject pride at what his fine son has brought home as a cherished prize - a jet black supercharged mid-engine relic in nearly showroom cleanliness.

Unfortunately, I fear my niece will beat my mechanic in my race to grasp a few final days of male bonding with my own father. My parents will make the fateful journey to the lower midwest to visit the new changeling, smell its soiled diapers and return in a delusional malaise way before I am able to pull into the driveway with my gleaming chariot. I will again be nothing more that a huge disappointment to them regardless of what I am driving.

By the time the toadling pinches off his first bowel movement, my parents may have already passed away or be near death and I may miss my last chance to see them out on a pleasant note.

Fuck the breeders.