UPDATE: Daddy Really is Bub’s Father; Both Sides Hate On Science

DNA results confirmed today that a long-feuding father and son are in fact related, a finding that prompted a strong backlash against cold, hard facts.

“I’ve always hated science,” Daddy said. “Ever since Mr. Wiegel told me I was going to go bald in 10^th grade. Yeah, way to build a kid’s self-confidence, science.”

“Like a Beatles cover or one Ding Dong, this is simply unsatisfying,” Bub said. “We are prepared to fight this all the way.”

For his part, Daddy took a different tack. “I don’t know what happened to those samples after they left my sight,” he said. “I’m just saying, they could have been testing shampoo or playing Platelet Pong with them for all I know.”

This story began several months ago when Bub sued for custody of himself, citing irreconcilable differences with his father. Daddy countered with a failed restraining order request before Bub finally requested DNA testing of himself.

When asked how he intended to fight overwhelmingly convincing DNA evidence, Daddy said: “Well, I ask you this—what is DNA, anyway? A fad, right? And just like parachute pants, it’ll go out of style. Oh, in twenty years, it might be retro, sure, but still nobody will know what DNA even stands for.”

When told that it stands for Deoxyribonucleic Acid, Daddy said, “Right. Like that’s a word.”

Asked to clarify exactly what his endgame was in the face of irrefutable evidence, Bub said, “Annulment. It worked for Britney Spears.”

When told that it is not possible to annul a parent or dissolve a childhood, Bub said, “Well, 500 years ago the earth was flat. Think about that.”

When asked if this could in some way be a building block for the two, a jumping-off point, that they now share a common enemy in science, and could work together instead of against each other toward bringing it down, Daddy said:

“No, that’s stupid.”

Asked if there was anything he learned from this or anything positive coming out of it, Daddy said:

“Yeah, as a matter of fact. Now I guess I can actually say, ‘Luke, I am your father’ to him all day long and he can’t say shit. ‘Cause it’s true.”

Except for the name, of course. A silver lining, indeed.

Gaffed Secret Handshake Brings Family Shame

A local one year-old known as Bub sullied his family moniker last month when he “ballsed up” the super-special family handshake extravaganza in front of a handful of Super Bowl onlookers.

“This was our half-time show; I was gonna go viral with this,” Daddy, the boy’s father, said. “Instead, the kid just folded like origami.”

Asked if he could describe the routine of humiliation, Daddy scoffed, “Duh, I choreographed it myself! Shake, pull, snap, flip, fake, fake, pound pound pound, pinky shake, head butt, two steps forward, two steps back, up high, down low, behind the back, too slow, 360, chest bump, thumb wrestle, sumo stomp, sumo stomp, air guitar, double-pits-to-chesty. Pretty dope*, right?”

“Does anyone else find this overly ambitious?” Bub asked. “Isn’t there some sort of law against chest-bumping a newborn?”

“It’s true, expectations may have been a little high,” Mommy said. “But you could see from the get-go that he just wasn’t focused. Really tough to tell his game face from his drool face.”

“I just wasn’t prepared,” Bub said. “We’d only rehearsed it twice, plus the crowd, the cameras flashing, the wet diaper, it was unseasonably humid for February.”

“You know who makes excuses?” Daddy asked no one in particular. “Losers. Pine-riders. He’s just not a PTP-er. Mommy should check her jewelry case, because she might be missing a choker.”

“In Bub’s defense, he did just learn to stand last month,” Mommy said. “But let’s just say I’m glad we Tivo-ed Madonna.”

Asked if he felt like a failure as a father, Daddy said, “We can't all be winners. It’s genetics. All those X, Y and Z chromosomes. Obviously, I had nothing to do with that.”

When asked if he would consider revisiting the routine in the future, Bub said: “Maybe. We started at the top, the Everest of sporting events, and it consumed us. Let’s start small, with something menial, a molehill to get our footing and see what happens.” Then he added, “Hey, isn’t the World Cup this year?”

*Editors note: ‘Dope’ is apparently a word roughly on par with ‘cool’ or ‘awesome,’ circa 1990.

Search for Nasal Aspirator Called Off; Parents Fear the Worst

HAVE YOU SEEN THIS SUCKER?

A week of numerous dead ends and fruitless cushion turn-ups ended in sadness yesterday, when two Chicago parents officially called off the search for their baby Bub’s nasal aspirator.

“We’ve done all we can do for Nubby,” Mommy said. “He was a part of our family taken too soon. He’s in God’s hands now. Either that, or a stranger’s nose.”

Nubby Nosesucker was last seen about ten days ago after a routine clearing of Bub’s nasal cavity. For the uninitiated, a nasal aspirator is an instrument of lesser torture that is squeezed, then jammed up babies’ noses and then released, creating a veritable black hole for all hapless nasal excretions to be sucked into. Appropriately, it is shaped like a teardrop.

Daddy was quick to point fingers. “Now I’m no detective, but you’ve got to think about who benefits. Who doesn’t get his nose sucked should poor Mr. McNubbins meet with an accident?” He then added, “Do I have to spell it out for you? M-O-T-I-V.”

Asked if it was fair to classify Bub and Nubby’s relationship as “testy,” Daddy said, “Huh huh.”

When shown a picture of Nubby, Bub said, “Never seen him before.”

We asked Bub if he could provide an alibi for the day in question:

“You give me a pint of blueberries, and I’ll give you an alibi so big your mama will weep.”

Daddy pledged to keep hope alive, despite taking no further action whatsoever to locate Nubby: “Nosesuckers don’t just get up and walk away,” he said, clarifying, “They have no legs.”

Nubby is sky blue, about four inches tall with a skinny torso and bulbous head. If anyone has seen Nubby or obtains any information that could lead to his rescue, please contact your local authorities.

Chicago Baby Launches New Line of Exclusive Junior Lounge Wear

Inspired by a rare back-to-back viewing of Forever Lazy and Pajama Jeans commercials, a young Chicago entrepreneur named Bub has just announced a new clothing label called Happy Pants.

“This concept has never been done before; it is essentially upscale uber-chic loungewear for babies,” Bub said.

A cursory visit to Happypants.com revealed that these aren’t your Aunt Connie’s sweatpants; prices start at $179 a pair.

“Our company motto is ‘Made for everybody, worn by somebodies.’” Bub said. “And please, these are not sweatpants. Sweating is so…pedestrian. These are loungepants. For lounging.”

Asked to clarify the difference between the two, he said, “Simple: You won’t find these at Wal-Mart.”

When questioned about the exorbitant prices, especially in such a wounded economy, Bub replied:

“These are completely hand-stitched, one pair at a time, by my manservant Daddy. It’s essentially a two-man operation here: we get an order, I oversee production, manservant stitches and ships. I also model.”

Maybe manservant isn’t the most politically correct term for his father?

“Yet eerily accurate, right?” Bub countered. “Hey, if the Happy Pants fit…And they always do, I might add. That’s guaranteed.”

Manservant Daddy was not granted permission to speak to us.  

When asked if these weren’t just Juicy pants for babies, Bub said, “I’ve got your Juicy pants right here! No, I’m serious, I require changing. Please fetch my manservant.”

Book-loving Baby Branded ‘Huge Nerd’ by Father

In the techno-baby age when most parents openly bribe their kids to put down the remote or turn off the XBox, one Chicago father has taken a very different t stance of his knowledge-thirsty son.

“He’s a huge nerd,” the father, known as Daddy, said, claiming that his son, Bub, will sometimes sit through 200 or more readings in one day.

“I'm standing right here,” Bub responded.

“I finish reading a book, he hands it back to me, demands an encore. It’s annoying,” Daddy said. “How many times can Little Lamb find his fucking friends, seriously?”

Asked what he’d rather be doing than educating his son, Daddy said simply, “Playing video games.”

“No, seriously,” he elaborated, “It’s not natural. I’m all like, ‘C’mon, Bub, let’s go wreck some Ferraris and kick some prostitutes!’ and he’s all like, (ridiculous Cockney accent) ‘No fanks, father, I’d rather prefer less codswallop and more lad’s book resuscitations. Cheers, mate.’”

Bub is British?

“If by British, you mean a huge nerd, then yes,” Daddy said.

“Here’s the thing about children’s books,” Daddy continued. “They suck. Take Little Bear is Hungry, for example. Five second synopsis: Bear goes around and asks everyone in the forest for a snack. They all tell this mooch to get bent. Then his mom gives him a piece of toast. The end. Not exactly Shakespeare. It’s not even a complete thought, let alone a story.”

When told that repetition and word association are key for brain development and language acquisition, Daddy said, “Yeah, right, hippie. That sounds like Star Trek or something.”

Bub said, “Could you please repeat that, hippie?”

Chicago Father Claims ‘Greatest Reading of All Time’ Honors

On an otherwise mundane Tuesday afternoon, a Chicago father, known as Daddy, laid claim to the highly subjective, previously non-existent title Greatest Reading of All Time after knocking a pre-nap delivery of Are You My Mother? out of the park.

“I’ve had perfect readings before, but this was one for the ages,” Daddy said of the epic event. “Sometimes you just envelop the words and are merely a vessel of delivery. Much like the natural casing to a frankfurter.”  

Even Bub, his relentlessly anti-Daddy son, conceded, “Yeah, it was pretty good.” This was roughly the equivalent of a Thanksgiving turkey telling his farmer, ‘I totally had this coming.’ 

A notoriously harsh critic, Bub’s been known to bite dangling digits of sub-par readers and use bodily functions in ways expressive well beyond his 16 months.

“One time he was displeased with my rendering of The Very Hungry Caterpillar,” Daddy said. “He knocked it out of my hand, then squatted right over it and made this face: Hrrrrrrggggggh!!! He had a diaper on, but still…”

Critics have been quick to point out that since the newly-christened title is unsanctioned and un-regulated, establishing rules and protocol for the competition is a must. When asked to elaborate on how exactly he ended up with something looking eerily similar to a County Rec Free Throw Champ trophy, Daddy said:

“Basically, when it was over, I was like, ‘Best reading ever, right?’ and Bub was like, ‘Yup.’ So we put it to the vote. It was unanimous. Landslide, bitches!”

Since there were only two suffragists to this world-beater of a reading, we asked them both if they could pinpoint why this was what is quickly becoming known as The One:

“I don’t know, would you say to Rembrandt, like, hey guy, why’d you choose that color for that water lily?” Daddy said. “Some things can’t be explained, they just are. Like satellites.”

Bub had a more thoughtful answer: “Well, he threw in extra animal noises and sound effects, all ad-libbed. But in a very complementary way, very tasteful. There’s a fine line between art and shtick, and he straddled it masterfully. A great reading to me is a delicate confluence of intonation, characterization and soul. Without all three, I might listen, but I can’t promise not to wipe boogers on you.”