Today's Episode of Maury Povich: The Short Story

    The two women could have been sisters. Corpulent, swaggering women with black wavy hair, each with the gait of a pack animal. All that set them apart, really, was their dress--Latika wore a parachute of a blouse which might have been taken from the hide of a turquoise leopard, if such a beast existed, and a pair of glasses. Catrice wore a subtle sweater of navy blue and a trying pair of bluejeans.
    Maury welcomed them with hugs. He pointed out that, normally, when two women have babies by the same man (allegedly, at this point), they don’t get along all that well. Now, clearing up that word--allegedly. That was the order of the day. As to Maury’s question, the women demurred.
    “It’s not about him, it’s about the kids,” Catrice allowed. Latika agreed. Somewhere a crowd cheered at the goodness of that statement. 
    It was upon the introduction of the “alleged” father Brandon and his girlfriend Pasha, whose name was inexplicably, to this writer, pronounced “Porsche,” that things began to get heated. Brandon walked out, bellowing indecipherable curses at no one in particular, Pasha following close behind, gesturing wildly, like an epileptic flamingo. Somewhere, a crowd booed them wildly.
    The happy, allegedly childless couple sat down--Pasha in the front row of the crowd, Brandon onstage, but not before moving his chair a few feet from its original place, so as to make clear that he wanted no part of the turquoise leopard, or her subtle sidekick. 
    Brandon was a shabby looking guy, his corn rows bursting at points, allowing little geysers of wisps here and there, and a fledgling mustache that stretched the length of his upper lip.
    Maury asked a predictable question. The onslaught began.
    “I’m a million percent positive!” Catrice said improbably. Somewhere, a crowd cheered. Brandon shook his head.
    “These girls are liars,” Brandon said. “I know Catrice was pregnant before I met her. She used to come over to my house and eat up all my food like she was eating for two people. After this test proves that I’m not the father, you need to stop harassing me!”
    There was some yelling. There was a lot of yelling. Somewhere, a crowd bristled and laughed and bristled again.
    “He told me he quit his job so he didn’t have to pay child support,” said the turquoise leopard. Somewhere, a crowd bristled and happily booed the villain. Brandon called Catrice, the one who ate up all his food, a bitch.
    “You left a bitch for a ho,” Catrice said, gesturing toward Pasha, and again for effect, “You left a bitch for a ho!”
    For some reason, the accusation prompted Pasha, pronounced Porsche, remember, to stand up and turn around, show her backside to her verbal accuser. “I’m all woman,” she said, popping her hips from side to side, like a recently struck sway bag. There was some more yelling. The turquoise leopard said she had slept with Brandon in August. That was after he had begun his relationship with Pasha, whose name was pronounced like a German car. Pasha went silent. Somewhere, a crowd oohed and ahhed and cheered happily.
    Finally, Maury said that it was time. A faceless someone handed him an envelope, from which he pulled out a sheet of paper.
    “When it comes to two-year-old Brylen,” Maury said, “you are the father!” And then: “When it comes to two-month-old Braylon--you are the father!”
   
    Brandon crouched with Brylen and Braylon, kissed one of them on the cheek. Convincingly, I guess, because Maury said, “See that? I know you’re going to be a good father.” Hm.
    Somewhere a crowd cooed and cheered with delight at the goodness.