Imagine an alternate history for Vince Vaughn. What if, 18 years ago, instead of rehearsing Swingers during the day and sampling Los Angeles' starlets at night, he channeled his sexual energy into masturbating for cash at a sperm bank? He could have become Delivery Man’s David Wozniak, father of 533 children, of whom 142 want to meet the mystery donor who artificially inseminated their moms. The mothers are invisible. Sure, they bought the juice, carried the fetuses, and raised the infants to adulthood. But this comedy is strictly XY. Wozniak (Vaughn) meets all sorts of kids -- lifeguards, historical re-enactors, buskers, drunks -- each of whom seems to have a 6-foot-5 hole in their lives that only he can fill. He's not just an onanistic slacker or a minimum-wage butcher facing a stack of parking tickets and gambling debts: He’s their guardian angel. Hollywood hails men like David Wozniak as wastrel kings; Seth Rogen, Jason Segel, and Vince Vaughn descend from an ignoble line that traces back to The Dude and Spicoli. But Delivery Man hails from Quebec, where writer-director Ken Scott originally shot it with French-speaking comedian Patrick Huard, which means America has successfully exported the slacker and is now getting him bounced back to us like crabs. Scott has even dumbed it down a notch. Merde. I-m being a little cruel to poor, dumb Delivery Man. It-s no better nor worse than the rest of its kin -- unless you’re a woman who believes in the existence of moms. But I-m also not sure why Delivery Man exists, except to appeal to a narrow Venn diagram of dude-bros who also change diapers.