By Alex Meyers

Man, am I wound up! I'm just a big frumpy lump in some kinda slump. I'm so stressed out that I could jump off a stump! And my wife? She sucks.

But my main problem concerns my son Rod, the anti-Christ.

Rod's teachers have been giving me crap all week about his “idiosyncrasies.” I assume they're referring to the fact that he happens to be the direct descendent of the Prince of Demons. Excuse me if I'm a little offended. When Nancy and I agreed to have a kid, that meant that we'd care for that child no matter what kind of Christ he might turn out to be, anti or otherwise! (As a side note, people often assume that I'm the Cloven Hoof himself just because I openly father the anti-Christ. I'm not the devil guys—I swear to God! Haha.)

Anyway, those teachers still have a bone to pick with the way I parent. “You should be a bit more conservative with the rules you set.”

“Rules?” I said. “You think I have sovereignty over this child? Wow. You've seen Rod being the anti-Christ, right? Lighting shoots out of his hair and into your soul if he even gets a little hungry. And for some reason you think I can tell the spawn of the Fallen Angel to clear the table? He'd turn my face into a full-grown Bengal tiger!”

But they stand strong. “Jake, Rod has a tendency to be controlling and he would really benefit from a strict Dad.”

A tendency to be controlling? Well what the fuck do they think we're dealing with here? Not the anti-Christ?

Son of a gun for asshole's shit! I don't know what these people expect me to do. Discipline Rod “the anti-Christ” Conway? Let me tell you, the kid is no slouch when it comes to being on top of things—and of course by that I mean he's invincible and I couldn't stop him if I tried. I kind of go with the flow when it comes to Rod's habits. Otherwise he'd kill me.

Yeah, I'd bet my glasses that if I even thought about telling Rod what to do he'd give me a one-way ticket out of town, straight into the universe of everlasting torture. He loves that universe!

But really, I was astounded by Rod's math teacher, Mrs. Ralph. She went on insisting that I do something about his “little quirks,” such as his ability to invoke any emotion in anyone at any time. Clearly she doesn't understand. Anyone who tries to guide that kid will be bumped off so fast Rod's head will spin. Rod likes abusing his unlimited power to sin and that's all there is to it. Case closed.

Don't think that he gives his old man any leeway. The only thing I'm guaranteed by taking care of the anti-Christ is that he'll be around a lot. Just the other day Rod forced me to sit and watch him do nothing but eat bananas for two and a half hours. I missed a dentist appointment and my favorite TV show, Law and Order. I made mention of this to him; not only did Rod have the show cancelled, but he then had me disassemble the television using only my teeth. That rascal really got my goat with that one! And then he had it sacrificed to him.

Rod is only seven and he generally uses his omnipotence for frivolous reasons.

Mrs. Ralph gave me one heck of a phone call Tuesday afternoon ranting about how Roddypoo made everyone in his school group together and construct a Washington-monument type structure out of cookies and GI Joes.

“How'd that work out?” I responded.

Again, I'm not exactly sure what she's looking for here. Rod does this stuff constantly—love it or die! There's no controlling him—he's a free spirit, a dreamer.

He's also the demon child who will one day inherit the Earth and swiftly destroy it.

And the thing is that I love the kid. How could I not? Rod's polite even when he's going berserk with his unlimited potential to sin. He's just cute as a button. And he knows when I'm lying.

As good as all that looks on paper, things can get rough. Take my wife. She's always giving me “hell” about my decision to become a devil worshipper. I says, “Honey, I'm only trying to support our son, the anti-Christ. What in the name of Hitler is wrong with that?”

Being a father is never easy but I try to have fun with it. My son is the nemesis of Jesus Christ—so what? That doesn't mean I can't throw a big Christmas party every year! As long as there's some sort of atrocity committed that evening, of course. And you just have to have a hobby. I bake cookies and beg Rod's forgiveness if he finds them unacceptable. Which is more often than not. I guess my cooking doesn't hold up to the standards of such a great kid!

(Sigh) I'm feeling better now that I've let out some steam. Haha. Rod thought it would be entertaining to alter my anatomy so that piping hot steam builds up in my body cavity throughout the day. It's not the best feeling in the world, but you know what? It's worth it. Not everybody can say they have a horrendous abomination for a son; I'm honored to house such an infamous horrendous abomination. “Don't sweat the small stuff”—although I can't take that literally because the steam causes me to sweat tremendously.

When in Rome is what I say to it all!

Speaking of ancient cities, I better go. Rod’s having me build a scale model of Sodom and Gomorrah out of lava using the surface of my eyes. Hopefully he'll reanimate my corpse afterwards like he usually does when we do wacky stuff like this. I'm a zombie 62,000 times over. God love him! Haha.

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