Henry A.

Abomination

      One warm August morning I woke up to find a baby at the foot of my bed.

      I wasn’t really surprised by the birth of my thirteenth child—after all, I was the biggest party animal in Boston. Unexpected stuff like this happened fairly often. Only yesterday I’d found no less than nine grapefruits clogging up my toilet. The week before, an iguana had climbed out of my garbage can. (It made a pretty terrifying sight, an iguana emerging from the black abyss of despair that was my trash, head covered in empty beer bottles and tuna fish.)

      What did surprise me was the fact that it was my baby.  This was evidenced by the long umbilical cord snaking its way through bags of Cheetos and abandoned pizza boxes. I don’t know why, but the first thing I noticed about the infant was the fact that it glowed a radioactive green, sort of resembling me in that respect. The four toes also tipped me off as to our relation. No doubt about it—this was my kid. But how did he/she/that get here?