Took us fiften minutes to get to the hospital. A new record. I never left my feet off the pedal. Not even on red lights. I knew it was it this time. I saw the look on her face. Saw the pain. The body movement. As she was plastered on the back with her legs in the air--a reflection of our first date--I knew I was to become a father in only counted minutes.

Nurses were downstairs and waiting. It was blitzkrieg-fast. Couldn't even finish my Mars bar I bought from the candy machine in the garage when they took my baby away to administer birth. Some fag in the waiting room screamed "congratulations!". He was probably hitting on me. Must be the new eyeliners I put on while she was having cramps. But what a lousy pick up line.

The room looked exactly like the room 101. Not that i've ever been there before but I was convinced that this was exactly like it looked like. At least as far as the collection of knives go--though no sight of a steak knife anywhere I looked. Pitiful collection then.

I was bumped by a doctor from behind. Wouldn't be the first time I had something done to my behind. "It's gonna be good", he assured me. "Heart beating normal and date of delivery couldn't be better". He then passed me on a paper with medical mambo jambo conserning my baby-to-come. I skimmed through the paragraphs until a line that sent shock vibes onto where was once brain. 4kg or 10 pounds. I was wet. Shivers run amok my body. With a stumbling voice I turned to the nurse, "is this the weight of my son?" - "No, this is the weight of your daughter", she smiled, "a healthy baby". "But... but... isn't it... isn't it fat for a newborn girl?" I croaked. "It's a perfect weight", she assured me and went on with her business. I wasn't impressed. So I did what every father would. I screamed of the tops of my lungs - "THIS BABY IS FAT. I DON'T WANTS IT". A second of silence of followed as heads turned on to me. I repeated myself. The doctor was crambling. "Sir", he urged me, "your wife is two minutes from delivery. This is no time for abortion". I was no longer Mr. Nice Guy. I went Dick Cheney on his ass and told him to go fuck himself. It was then when I left the room, took out the pertinant forms that I luckily carried in my inside pocket all the time, signed them and passed onto the administrator; with a gun in the right hand shall he try and act funny. I don't like funny people. He had no choice but to call off the delivery.

"Do you realize what your wife had to go through to get to this stage?", someone from the waiting room remarked. "I'll make it up to her", said I without turning my head. And as she was wheeled away into the abortion room, I assured her I would take her out for some ice cream tonight.

True story of course. Discuss.