Tuesday, September 27, 2011

Man's Guide to Pregnancy: Part Deux: Change Will Yank Your Skinny Jeans Down Around Your Ankles

Ummmm...I think NOT.

In our last episode, you needed a recap because you suffer from short-term memory loss and/ or chronic stupidity (spoiler- it’s both). So here’s a brief summary: Monkeys (and all other animals) are smarter than your stupid ass because they don’t unnecessarily complicate the reproductive process. They just play the role that evolution and Jojobuja the Great Monkey God have written for them. You, on the other hand, have just enough higher-level cognitive function combined with a complete lack of wisdom and understanding to complicate the living shit out of a relatively simple process. Also, you are a complete fucking waste of opposable thumbs and barely functioning reproductive organs. We also conclusively established the fact that my penis is both longer and thicker than yours. Significantly. More on this shit later. But right now, there’s some other shit you need to know.

First off, as a man you don’t know shit about reproduction, pregnancy and parenting. That’s part of why Dr. Spock and the reincarnated ghost of L. Ron Hubbard have you by the balls. But know this, stupid-ass, retarded grasshopper: these assholes don’t know shit about that stuff either. They just know how to sell their self-help, scientologist snake oil to fucktards like you. In reality, these twatweasels understand pregnancy and parenting about as well as you do, which is to say next to nothing. You’re like that offensively racist yet endearing black girl in Gone With the Wind- you don’t know nothin’ ‘bout birthin’ no babies. If there is anything you do know it’s that you need hot water and a newspaper. But you have no fucking clue what for (yeah, I ended a sentence with a fucking preposition. What are you gonna do about it? That’s right, suck it, English language!). Are we supposed to make pasta and read the sports page- “Hey that’s a spicy fucking meatball! Goddammit, the Padres lost again!” What the jumped up Jesus on a pogo stick do we expect to come out of there? A lobster? Fish ‘n chips? Actually, yes, according to a bullshit survey I just made up right now. According to this bullshit survey, the 2010 U.S. Census Bureau reports that one out of every ten births is seafood. That is why New England Clam Chowder is currently the third most popular baby name in America and possibly Slovakia.

It’s also important to realize that your partner is not having your child because of the deep, abiding, Tom Hanks/Meg Ryan movie love she carries in her heart for you. It’s because she hates you and wants to punish you for all the terrible shit you have done. And because God hates you and wants to punish you for all the terrible shit you have done. And because fuck Michael Vick. In both ears with assorted spider-monkey dicks.

Ok, that last part was kind of non sequitur, it had no real relevance or logical connection to anything I was talking about, and added absolutely nothing to the discussion. Unless, of course, you’re M. Night Shyamalan, in which case it was a clever twist. But he wrote a bunch of shitty, self-important screenplays and put himself in all his movies, so fuck him, too. Especially for Lady in the Water. I mean, what the fuck, man? Here’s a completely useless and gratuitous chart to illustrate:

Michael Vick


Shitty screenplay


M. Night Shymalan


Fuck you

I think this chart clearly illustrates that everyone hates you, shit is going to change, and you’re fucked.

Also, you suck.

Guess what else has got to change?
You, asshole. You’ve got a fuck ton of responsibility now, so get your shit together right fucking now, you lazy fuck! Put down that x-box and that fucking bong! Now, dickwad!

Oh, stop crying for Christ’s sake. I’m just saying you’ve got to shut up, man up and
grow the fuck up.

For starters, you’ve got to get a real job. And by that I mean an actual, full-time job that takes place someplace other than your couch, your local bar, or (if you’re a wannabe artsy poseur with a camera) your local park, hiking trail, or urban industrial landscape. Simply adding freelance to your favorite hobby does not count as an actual job/career. I cannot overemphasize this point, you arrogant, pompous, self-absorbed little douchebag. Because you are incredibly stupid, here is a list of things you might think are jobs but are NOT:

Freelance artist

Freelance painter

Freelance skateboarder

Freelance video gamer

Freelance political activist

Freelance poet

Freelance novelist

Freelance short story writer

Freelance spoken word “artist”

Freelance travel writer

Freelance journalist

Freelance photographer

Freelance photojournalist

Freelance music producer

Freelance film director

Freelance screenwriter

Freelance faux artsy thing of any sort

Freelance masturbater

Freelance arrogant, self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing, talentless little douche who wants people to think he’s creative and artistic.

While this list is not exhaustive, even you should pretty much get the idea. When in doubt, the final “job” on the list serves as a sort of catch-all provision. Anything that falls under the“ freelance, self-absorbed, self-aggrandizing, talentless little douche who wants people to think he’s creative and artistic” category is not a real job. It might impress high school girls when you crash your nephew’s birthday party to meet chicks, but it will not support a family. You will just rent a shitty apartment until you die alone at the age of fifty-two of auto-erotic asphyxiation. Your neighbors will notice a horrible smell and they will complain to the manager, who will promptly enter the premises as soon as your rent is three days late and discover your bloated corpse dangling from the ceiling, your Wham concert video still looping on your dvd player.

You see where this shit leads? Stop pretending like your hobbies are a career. They’re not. And you know what? I’m going to tell you something your parents apparently never did because they read some bullshit self-help book and didn’t want to cripple your developing sense of self-esteem: You are not talented. At all. Your screenplay/short story/great American novel is never going to be a success. It is just going to float around on your Mac like the literary turd it is. And just because you walk around downtown taking black-and-white pictures of sleeping homeless people doesn’t make you artistic or a hard-hitting photojournalist. It just makes you creepy. So does the fact that you just continue to stand there and watch them after you’re done. And so does that roll of duct tape you keep in your glovebox. And the way you take magazine pictures of women and cut out the eyes and tape them to the back of your closet. And that whole thing you do where you put on your mother’s panty hose, dance around, and order three Dominos Pizzas for delivery in her voice. That’s really sick, man. Get some help. And get a Goddamn job, hippie!

In reference to getting a job, I should tell you that you may have to take a drug test. So, you know that bongload you just smoked like twenty seconds ago? Make it your last for a while, because that shit stays in your system for like a month. Stick to coke for a while, because that shit clears out of your system in like three days. I know most of you are parolees, so I assume you’re familiar with the drug testing process, but for those of you who have not been convicted of jacking it in the public pool, here’s an example of what kind of crap you may be subjected to.

I had to drive my ass out to El Cajon for my piss test. I fucking hate El Cajon. Those of you who are only familiar with San Diego from postcards may need an explanation. San Diego is not actually a beach full of pretty buildings, killer whales, and pandas. For instance, the South Bay area is composed primarily of stabby cholos. The Gaslamp neighborhood is composed primarily of Jersey Shore-type douchebags and whores. North Park, South Park, Golden Hill (where I live), and Hillcrest are full of douchebag hipsters in skinny jeans and checkered-print shirts who have been trying unsuccessfully for six months to get their pretentious moustaches to fill in. Hillcrest is also San Diego’s premiere gay neighborhood. Ocean Beach is full of unwashed, smelly, bongloading hippies who want your spare change and your signature on some Greenpeace petition. Pacific Beach is plagued by a bunch of complete tools in Ed Hardy Gear. Many of these douchebags are in fact rednecks who drive their lifted trucks from East County to party at the beach. Their scientific name is roadkill jackoff. And as you may have guessed from learned treatises such as this paragraph, East County is full of rednecks. And El Cajon is square in the middle of East County.

Just to put things in perspective, you can’t drive your car off the road in East County communities such as El Cajon, Lakeside, Ramona and Santee without hitting a meth lab. In his famous interview in Butt Cake Magazine, X-Files creator Chris Carter admitted that the toothless, inbred, banjo-playing hillbilly rubes of East County provided the inspiration for the severely inbred and grotesquely deformed Peacock family. And Miss Lakeside 2002 starred as a grotesquely deformed radioactive mutant in the remake of The Hills Have Eyes.

She did not wear makeup.

So I had to drive out past a sea of lifted pickup trucks to this carnival freak show and wait in a cramped room for the honor of peeing in a plastic cup. Actually, the piss lab (that’s its official title) reminded me a lot of the DMV. A cranky, overweight, middle-aged woman who hates her life barks orders at you. There’s always a woman with five screaming kids. There’s always some guy who smells like a sweaty butthole that can’t tell the difference between roadkill and a bar of soap. And he’s gonna strand right next to you. Yeah, buddy, standing in the lawn sprinkler and rubbing yourself with a possum that you hit with your pickup does not count as a shower and it does not make you smell better. Yes, Travis, I’m sure that is not a bar of soap. No, that’s not lather. I don’t know what it is, but it’s definitely not lather. After waiting for what smells like an eternity, they send you in the bathroom where you’re supposed to masturbate into a cup. Wait. What do you mean you don’t take that here? Oh, I’m supposed to pee in there. Do I still get fifty bucks? Damn! Can I just use the same cup?

So that’s basically it. Shit is gonna change. You’re gonna have to accept your hobbies for what they are- fucking hobbies. You’re gonna have to punch the clock at a boring-ass, but real job. And you’re going to have to grow the fuck up and quit dicking around like a child. You’re about to have one, so stop being one you whiney little turdsnot!

That almost covers the basics of the shit that’s going to change with you. But what about the unfortunate mother of your genetically inferior (thanks to your shitty genes) mongoloid demon-seed? You know she’s going to change dramatically both physically and emotionally.
But how? You wonder perplexedly in your feeble mind. No worries, stupid-ass, retarded grasshopper. I will give you some sage advice on your journey.

Men have some vague, movie-influenced notion of what labor is like—lots of screaming, sweating, swearing etc. But your wife is going to do some weird shit, too. Think of Linda Blair in
the Exorcist, howling profanities, rotating her head all the way around, and vomiting pea soup. And I’m not just talking about in the delivery room. I’m talking about right now in places like her mother’s house, church, the public library, your office at work, Congress, an Easter egg hunt for underprivileged orphans, and your funeral. Just expect her to wake you up in the middle of the night, yelling “Your mother sucks cocks in hell, Karros!” Don’t be confused and alarmed because your name is not Karros and your mother is alive and well in Tennessee, or India, or Serbia, or wherever. Listen to Max von Sydow. It’s just the demon talking. It lies. Don’t let it fool you.

And speaking of waking up in the middle of the night, get used to it. You think that shit doesn’t start until after the baby’s born?
Shiiiit! You’re dumber than you look. Babies like to party like rock stars even before they’re born. And they like to do it at 2 a.m. That’s when they start twitching and flopping like Michael J. Fox under a strobe light, crank the stereo in there to about 11 and call a hooker. One time, I swear a balloon full of heroin popped out. And I’m pretty sure somebody nailed some furniture to the ceiling.

Also expect to wake up from time to time with your wife perched on your chest, sucking glowing white light from your mouth and nose. Don’t be alarmed. It’s only your soul. (That’s also how pregnant women get that famous glow.) And besides, she needs it to feed your growing hellspawn, so don’t bitch about it, you wuss! Female spiders let their babies eat them alive when they hatch, so quit complaining, you selfish pigfuck. And remember that no matter how much Linda Blair yells about cocks in hell, she’s going to be insecure from time to time, Karros. So try not to act like a total dick. I know that you
are a total dick, just don’t act like one. That’s also your job, too.

Just don’t pee in a cup.

Also expect your wife to crave weird shit while she’s pregnant. For instance, on one day she may only want to eat ice cream and drink V-8. On another, she may want nothing but pickles and olives. On another she may want to eat nothing but human heads and legos. Stranger still, there may be a day when she only wants Taco Bell. Just shut up and get the fucking heads and legos.

Obviously, your wife’s body is going to change as well. There is, after all, a human being growing in her stomach. While spaceheads in unitards who listen to whale song like to talk about how beautiful this process is, that’s a bunch of bullshit. Ask your wife how beautiful it feels to have a giant monkey growing in her womb while her back and feet ache, her fingers swell, and she struggles for breath. Then cover your balls. It’s not beautiful, it’s fucking brutal. Here are some things you can expect, but can’t say out loud and expect to keep your balls:

As everyone knows, pregnant women’s bellies expand rapidly as their unborn babies grow. Before long, your wife’s stomach will begin to look like one of those punch balloons you used to play with when you were a kid, or the Hindenburg. Here’s a tip: don’t grab her belly and yell, “Oh, the humanity!” She will melt your face off with laser death rays from her eyes and kick you in the balls while you’re sleeping.

You can also expect your wife to have some difficulty with basic locomotion. Don’t let her roll onto her back, or she’ll flail like a turtle and wheeze like Orson Welles running the Boston Marathon until you pull her up. Don’t point and laugh, or say some shit like “Rosebud,” or “I like turtles!” She will melt your face off with laser death rays from her eyes and kick you in the balls while you’re sleeping.

These are some of the big changes you can expect. But there is another major change that we need to address further. As I said earlier, shit is about to get unnecessarily confusing and complicated. Now, stupid-ass, retarded grasshopper, you are finally prepared to face the reincarnated ghost of L. Ron Hubbard and the forces of self-help darkness.

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