Oh, Maury…

This morning while I was waiting for the train I had an unprecedented delay; due to some sort of error with the signaling systems, my train had to travel slowly and arrived just over 80 minutes late.

It was ridiculous to show up at the station on time as usual, and sit around for the hundred-odd minutes it took for my train to finally arrive, let me tell you, but I was saved by one thing: television.

Though I was listening to my iPod the whole time, and hence oblivious to dialogue, there was an episode of the Maury “Mr. Paternity Test” Povich Show on television featuring women who had been on the show seventeen times prior and still hadn’t determined who the father of their child was. Also featured was a dude who’d been taken on the show for paternity tests a few times by several different women. The baby wasn’t his.

The killer was this great promotion line over commercial breaks: “Does your boyfriend/husband think that he is the father of your child, but you’d like a way to let out the secret that he may not be?” Outrageous, this new angle. Which made me very much want to see another new one:

“Men – know you’ve impregnated someone, but not sure who? Too many ambiguous, anonymous messages on your answering machine? Call the Maury show, and let us sort out the fetuses for you.”

(I just felt I should publish that publicly somewhere as a testament before I go and pitch it to the networks.)


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  • About

    My name is Bobby.

    I write about random things a lot. I write a lot about random things.

    I write occasionally for Smashing Magazine and the London Community News online, and weekly for Interrobang, the student voice newspaper at Fanshawe College in London, Ontario.

    I've also been published by the Canadian University Press.
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