I got an Ancestry.com DNA testing kit for my birthday. I was super excited and eager to find out about my heritage. You see, my mother was adopted and my father abandoned me soon after I was born. I knew my mother had some Italian ancestors, due to her dark features and her meatball making skills. However, my mother refused to tell me the true identity of my real father. All she would tell me is that he was an “eccentric man with a mysterious personality.” For thirty years I was left with a constant void in my life. I was truly, a bastard child.
The DNA kit was an opportunity for me to try and discover the identity of my father. I didn’t want to go through life not knowing where I came from. I got the kit in early September. The process was pretty easy. I had to spit in a tube and send it to some lab in Utah. I cracked open the box, opened the tube and began spitting. I had to stop for a second after I noticed I was still chewing tobacco. Some tobacco residue was floating in the tube of spit, but I didn’t think it would be a problem. I placed the chewed up tobacco in a Mt. Dew bottle and continued spitting in the tube. I filled it to the appropriate level and put it in the outgoing mail. I made an account on Ancestry.com and continued on with my day, excited and eager for the results. The website said it could take several weeks, if not months, to receive the results.
I actually got the results back in late October and I couldn’t wait to see who I was related to. I was hopeful some results would lead me to my biological father. What I ended up seeing was shocking. I opened up my results to find that I had a match with a woman named Lisa. This made sense, because Lisa is my mother. This let me know the test was no fluke. It actually worked. I scrolled down to the next match and what I saw was insanely baffling. The test had reveled that Banksy, the famous street artist, was my real father. I didn’t know what was more shocking, the fact that Banksy was my father or the fact that such an elusive man did a DNA test. Either way, I was in shock and immediately started dipping tobacco to control my nerves.
The website gave an option to message each DNA match. First, I messaged my mother and told her I had discovered her long dark secret. She admitted to the results and told me she had met him at a Sherwin-Williams paint store back in 1984. They quickly struck up a romantic relationship and spent the next few months discussing the Cold War and the Reagan administration. Apparently, my father was so moved by their discussions that he decided to become a full-time political activist. I was born the following September. My mother said that Banksy spray painted my nursery to look like the Berlin wall, before packing his suit case and disappearing forever.
It felt good to finally get some answers, even if those answers were weird and disappointing. I decided to message my father to see if I could get a response. I sent him a very emotional message, requesting that he at least meet me for lunch. I was surprised to get an answer. However, it didn’t come from the website, but instead came via a pigeon. A pigeon pecked at my bedroom window. I let it in and removed a note pinned to it’s tail. The note said, “It’s true. I am your father. Love, Daddy.” The note then burst into flames, catching my drapes on fire and setting off my smoke alarms. Spooked, the pigeon flew through my house, shitting on my brand new hardwood floors before finally exiting the house.
After the fire department and insurance agency left my property, I decided to message my father back. I sent him a message asking him to tell me a little about himself. I really wanted to learn about the man, not just the artist. He never messaged me back. About a month later I got a knock on my front door. I opened it to find an envelope. Inside the envelope was a picture of me as a newborn. On the back of the picture was the famous Banksy signature. This made me smile. The picture then burst into flames and caught my living room on fire. This time I was not so lucky. I lost my entire house to the fire.
Conclusion: Ancestry DNA is a bad idea.
P.S. I love you dad. Please don’t send me anymore notes.