Another Hat in the Ring
Humor by Tom McLaughlin
I am the father of Anna Nicole Smith's child. I first met Annie strolling down the beach in Ocean City. I had worked out in the "I didn't bribe enough" health spa for two years. My body had become irresistible to the ladies. My pecks were pectoral, my abs admirable, and my butt a magnet for any female
She was humming a Brandenburg Concerto, Number 4 I think. I was wearing a road cone orange bikini-brief bathing suit while she adorned a black one piece with her hair stuffed in a white bathing cap. Upon espying each other, we leapt into the air simultaneously and bounded into each others arms with the strains of "The Hills Are Alive" from the Sound of Music replacing all thoughts.
We embraced, pecking each other on the cheek, our bodies urgently wanting, yet hesitating. We both agreed to wait for the right moment. Walking hand in hand, poetry dripped from out lips; me, about cow nose rays; her, about her previous life in the Sisters of the Seashell Convent in the Bahamas.
Longingly, we agreed to meet for a romantic dinner at Belly Busters. Our eyes never left each other as we pounded crabs, puckering as we sucked the snow white crab meat from decimated shells and wiping Old Bay from our lips. Wham! Went the hammer down as our tension built. Spicy hot was the word for our passion.
Sauntering hand in hand down the boardwalk, we purchased "I'm with him and her t-shirts with arrows pointing to each other. We sang the great hit "Do wah ditty ditty dum ditty do" in each other's ears. Our lips met as we ate French fries, each starting at one end until we kissed. Our love was an all-encompassing pink flamingo flame.
Afterward, her cell phone rang. It was an urgent call from Christian radio personality Howard Stern, who now beamed down his message from a satellite in the sky, closer to heaven. She drove to the Ocean City airport and took a flight to Florida where she was assigned to teach parenting skills to residents of an Indian reservation.
Our love child was born and immediately whisked to the convent of the Sisters of the Seashell for a proper conservative upbringing. I sadly agreed.
I wandered the islands seeking love and companionship. From bar to bar I went, dressed in my open green, tropical shirt with gold chains and medallions carefully displayed on my bare chest, shaved only a day before. I paid with an American Express Gold Card. I only met saddened and frustrated journalists seeking their next five stories for the weekly issue.
Then, mysteriously, my ocean lover died.
I rushed to the Bahamas to retrieve my baby girl.
Astonished, I had to wait in line that wound around the corner and down the street for the DNA man, who was taking samples to prove fatherhood. Next, came the yell as the procession moved agonizing slow with men strutting like a peacock to claim the multi-million dollar prize of the little girl's fortune.
It sure beat the Power Ball odds, I was told. And picking up a girl at the Green Turtle, I thought.