Rain on a parade. The bitter pill. Debbie Downer. If you read my
previous post, you may have gotten the impression I am all of these. Well guess what? Your impression is dead-on (though still not as good as
Dave Coulier's Bullwinkle*). I'm a ruiner, a spoiler, a poop. When a couple tells me they're going to have a baby, I remind them that their current economic situation will put the baby behind a significant 8-ball that it won't ever be able to overcome, regardless of how many books they buy or how long the mother holds headphones playing Beethoven up to her engorged belly. If I were around to hear a 19-year-old Mackenzie Phillips brag about fucking a rock star, I would have pointed out that the rock star was her dad (and even if he wasn't, he's not necessarily all that
great of a catch).
