By Sam Vargo
Maury Povich is a fraud—a cold-hearted, nasty animal who enjoys framing poor sots like me with paternity obligations.
I was on The Maury Povich Show the other day and this overly glorified phlebotomist—this genetic DNA cracking sleuth known as Maury Povich—took the blood sample out of a blue-ringed octopus, squirted the blood into a Petri dish and then went on to say—on National Television—that I was the father of a set of triplets. Of course, he slammed that long needle into Mr. 8 Ball off camera, that sneaky, diabolical rogue celebrity (Povich that is, not the octopus).
Anyhow, Maury said the DNA of three triplets born of an acquaintance of mine—a hangers-on at a nearby fraternity house—matched mine completely. And now I must pay each of those little bundles of joy a thousand bucks a month or face being a deadbeat dad. Deadbeat dads rank up there on the sleaze list with pyromaniacs, peeping toms, morons who have sex with stop signs, rabid dogs who bite the innocent, and illegal aliens from outer space.
Let me explain how I ended up on The Maury Povich Show. You see, there's this girl who lives in the attic of the frat house down the street. She's a nice girl but likes to party a lot. And as you know, along with partying comes that little S-E-X word. Her name is Olivia Teebone and she's a former belly dancer, dog groomer and coal miner. She's on the 10-year plan towards getting an associate degree. Actually, she's about right on par with her other brothers at the frat house.
But Teebone has virility and stamina. She was so promiscuous she often forgot how many thousand times she had sex in one week (i.e., was it in the one thousand range? Two thousand? Three, four or five thousand range?). She's currently on the “almost confirmed” list to get into the Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum in St. Augustine, Florida for being a true sexual abnormality.
Anyhow, Ms. Teebone called me up one day and told me to be on the set of The Maury Povich Show the next week. Not realizing what was in store, I went to the damned show, only to be framed. Those damn triplets aren't even my race! I'm a third Cajun, a third Latvian, and another third black. My skin is the same color as a Cuban Cigar. Those three baby girls were as white as albino crayfish, obviously paternalized by someone of a race with little or no pigmentation.
“SAM, YOU ARE THE FATHER,” Extremely Mean Povich yelled as he got off his chair and hugged and kissed Teebone. Then Teebone jumped up in the air and kicked me in the guts. Security came out and tied us all down to very hard cots.
Before this, I watched Maury with a bit of aloof skepticism, but I always respected his DNA findings. Sure, he's a bit of a mad scientist and all, as manic as a chimpanzee on a sugar high, but I honestly thought his DNA evidence was conclusive. Now, after being on the show and realizing what hocus pocus goes on there, I know exactly how this celebrity named Maury Povich scoffs at science and medicine. Extracting blood from an extremely venomous eight-legged fish and claiming it's DNA evidence linking me to fatherhood?! The gall!! People like Maury Povich put the “bad” in “bad medicine” and “bad science.” The man is a genetic weapon of mass destruction.
Is the media sensationalistic? I don’t know. But I do know that I probably have very different blood than a blue-ringed octopus. With eight legs, maybe that poisonous wanna-be shellfish can come up with the paternity payments. He’s a real Horatio Alger story. I’m not. I’m just some guy who hasn't yet graduated from college, who still lives at the corner frat house and enjoys having a beer now and then.