Yesterday on our daily lunchtime constitutional, Sarah and I ran into a contingent of strikers from the Writers’ Guild. They were picketing in Battery Park outside the Museum of the American Indian, neither of which as far as I know employs any members of the Guild, but I’m not an expert on unions or labor law so I’m sure this tactic makes sense somehow.
Anyway, inspired by their efforts, I decided to form my own union and try to obtain better working conditions. As such, the International Brotherhood of Expectant Fathers, Local 406, (i.e., me) is now officially on strike from being Sweet Pea’s father-to-be. The way I see it, we’ve been operating without a contract since last Sunday. We refuse to perform any additional paternal duties until the other side at least comes to the negotiating table and agrees to start uterine contractions. Binkies down means binkies down!
Dwyeropolis 
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