Asshole Baby-Daddy

The phone rang about an hour ago. Well, it didn't really ring; it started playing "Full-Metal Jackoff" by Jello Biafra. This is the ringtone I'd reserved for just one person: the asshole motherfucking shiteater who knocked me up.

When I first got the pee-on-a-stick test results way back when, I left a message for asshole, giving him the news and asking him to call me back. Nothing, zip, nada. I left another message the following day, when the doctor confirmed that the asshole hadn't been shooting George Bushes from his oh-so-average Saturday night special. Still no response from him.

I rang his friends. Amazingly, none of them knew where the asshole was or how I could get in touch with him. He never turned up in the places we used to hang out. He certainly never came to the bar where I'd sold him that first, fateful beer and shot.

I'd seen him once since then. He was exiting a convenience store, unwrapping a pack of smokes. I didn't bother calling to him or running him down. Fuck him, I thought, and decided there and then to put him out of my mind.

But I'd forgotten to erase him from my phone's memory, so when it rang I knew it was him.

"I saw the website," he says, instead of "hello", or "how are you?"
"What website?" I say.
"Don't shit me. I recognized you in the picture."
Since my face isn't in that 5 month-old profile photo, and I doubt the asshole looked at my face more than once while we were fucking, I guess he could identify me by my navel and tits.
"What website?" I say again. "I don't know what you're talking about."
"Don't bother. I know it's your site," he says smugly.


"What the fuck do you want?" I ask. Who knows? Maybe the bastard's feeling guilty. Maybe, after all this time, he's going to offer to make "an honest woman" of me. We can walk down the aisle to the strains of the "Full-Metal Jackoff" ringtone.

"How much have you raised?" he asks.
"What?" I reply incredulously.
"How much money have you made. I've got a right to know."
"A right. You've got a right. To know." My head is spinning. I giggle.
"It's half mine. Don't be a bitch about it. You know you should give me half. The kid's half mine. The money's half mine too. Don't try to--"

There's a crater in the plaster in my bedroom where the Nokia hit the wall.