By Marian Gorrell
“‘Sup Bae, how you feeling?” Jay Z called, as he came home from a busy day of bootlegging Full House videos for his chiropractor.
“Actually, I got the collywobbles,” Beyonce’ replied, rising from her afternoon siesta. That taco was scrumptious at the time, but now I’m feelin like I have parainfluenza or something.”
“ythink mibe smethin tdo wit the kidz…” Jay Z said in a stream of incomprehensible syllables.
“Girl, parse the sentence! Don’t you think your discomfort could be from the kineto-twins in your belly? I can’t wait ‘til you get that amniocentesis so I can see if they’re boyz or girlz.”
“You washed up nimrod,” Beyonce retorted, “that’s not how you find that out. That’s what ultrasounds are for.
“Whatever, I just want to start planning names. I’m thinking Gizmo for a boy.”
”Are you insane?” shot Beyonce, violence showing crimson in her face, her voice maniacal. “There is no way my sweet little leveret will have a ghetto name like that!”
Terrified, Jay Z decided he better relinquish the naming of the children, rather than trying to pitch any other names that might result in her footwear up his ass. He realized he should have worn a breastplate for that conversation, and quickly changed the subject. ”Escrow is about to close on that amazing villa in Champaign. It will be the perfect bequest for the children.
Once again Beyonce’s eyes sparkled. “That was the best Valentines gift ever. Well that, and you actually doing the laundry for a change.”
After sharing a tender kiss, Jay Z decided he was out of the dog house. “I do look forward to those babies’ birthday. I just know my boy will have a whong just like his old man!”