Is Alice Cooper My Dad?

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I think there’s somethin’ crazy goin on in your head behind your eyes…

“Hey Mum – some of this old stuff aint too bad, ya know…”

“Oh, Lord, what are you listening to now, child?”

“Umm… Baby Animals? Cute and fluffy, huh?”

She snorts and wanders off. I put the headphones on and keep ripping her CDs to mp3.

“You know,” she says over dinner, “We thought some of that stuff was Satanic when I was younger – Alice Cooper, Meatloaf, Poison… I never could let go of their CDs, though, when I joined the church. Not that anyone really cares too much anymore. Funny, huh? God, you should have heard the uproar when we found out George Michael was gay…”

I laugh.

“Alice Cooper Satanic? Mum, he’s a golfing fiend! Ha – get it, golfing fiend?”

“Oh, sure, these days you laugh! Back in my day he bit the heads off chickens and conducted Satanic rituals backstage!”

“Did he really?”

“God knows…” she says, looking thoughtful, “but I thought maybe he did… and damn did I want to get backstage and find out!”

I collapse into giggles.

“Hey, he’s not my bio-father, is he?”

She looks round-eyed at me.

“Are you asking if I slept with Alice Cooper?”

“What, can he do the Virgin Birth style thing?”

She laughs and shakes her head.

“No, I didn’t sleep with Alice Cooper, and besides – he’d calmed down by the time YOU were born. Nah, your dad’s more likely to be Kurt Cobain.”

It’s my turn to look shocked.

“NO! I didn’t sleep with him either! Crikey, girl, what DO you tell your friends about me? ‘My mum’s shagged every man-slut in Sydney’?”

“Nup.”

“Thank God.”

“Just all the rock stars.”

“You – brat! You don’t, do you?”

I giggle and run to my room, and a choc-chip muffin whistles past my ear and smacks into the wall.

“That was your dessert, brat!” she yells after me, laughing.

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