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.

Man's Guide to Pregnancy: Part One: Why Monkeys Are Smarter Than Your Stupid Ass

Contrary to the sage and irrefutable pronouncements of Dr. Spock, Dr. Phil, Dr. Drew, Dr. Phil, Dr. Who, Dr. J, anybody with a PhD, anyone who got a B minus in their community college psychology class or a B plus in their community college women’s studies class, warlocks, unshaven patchouli women who believe that having a penis is an act of violence and oppression by which you have socially, economically and politically raped all women living or dead as well as literally raped all women with whom you have had consensual sex (N.B. If you are Kobe Bryant, Ben Rothlisberger, or pretty much any NBA or NFL player, I place the word “consensual” in quotation marks. Also you literally have raped them), “womyn” with a y (see above), super-intelligent dolphins, several bullshit surveys, your mom, the ghost of the Trix rabbit, and any asshole who is trying to sell his bullshit self-help book, dvd, audio recording, or screenplay (I don’t know what a self-help screenplay is, but if you have ever written any screenplay of any kind, you are a pompous, pretentious asshole trying to sell bullshit. Also, fuck you. Also, your screenplay sucks), parenthood is not that fucking complicated.

At least not at its most basic level.

Think about it- it’s a basic, natural act in any animal species. We humans just managed to complicate the shit out of it. I mean, have you ever seen an otter, a lizard or the cast of the Jersey Shore turn parenthood into some angst-ridden, hand-wringing, neurotic existentialist dilemma? Fuck no. They don’t have the higher-level cognitive function to mindfuck themselves silly.

Or take species that are a bit closer to us such as monkeys and apes. A few weeks ago, I was watching some spider monkeys in their cage at the zoo (by the way, this is an appropriate action, whereas standing around outside an elementary school and watching children is not, just in case you were unsure on this point). These motherfuckers had their shit down. They weren’t reading parenting magazines and taking about ways to cultivate the self-esteem of their little bastards (I can say that because I’m pretty confident that the baby monkeys’ parents were never legally married) or the relative merits of active parenting. No, they just slung those little fuckers on their backs, bounced around, ate fruit, fed the babies and generally shut the hell up. Sure they might occasionally fling their own feces, but let’s face it- they’re much more comfortable with their parental role that your spastic ass. That’s because monkeys have not needlessly overcomplicated the parenting process, and because they have adhered to the roles that millions of years of evolution and Jojobuja the Great Monkey God have ordained.

Baboons get it. Their behavior is a bit more complex than that of spider monkeys, but they still seem to pretty much have their shit together (at least when they’re not flinging it). They know their roles and they don’t overcomplicate it with whale song, unitards, and self-help books secretly published by the reincarnation of the ghost of L. Ron Hubbard (unlike us, by which I mean your dumb ass). The females are the primary caretakers, while most of the males sit around and bare their teeth at each other (a sign of dominance and aggression) and occasionally beat the living shit out of each other (also a sign of dominance and aggression). Sure, some of the wimpy-ass melvin baboon males sometimes play babysitter to baboon youngsters, but they only do it to impress female baboons with how caring and sensitive they are, and because they’re saving up money for an X-Box. Some bullshit study by Harvard also shows that this tactic prevented dominant male baboons from giving the little melvin baboons swirlies in the men’s room toilet. So in a sense, they’re complete phonies (see screenplay asshole above. Also, fuck that guy), but that’s their role. They stick to it. And they don’t give a fuck what Deepak Chopra, Dr. Spock, or the reincarnated ghost of L. Ron Hubbard have to say about it. They keep it real.

Of course, I still don’t trust baboons. I mean, how can you trust anything that’s ass looks like it’s been sitting on a transvestite serial-killer hooker clown’s face?

I would discuss our closest relatives, chimps, but all they do is sit around and masturbate all day. Wow, they really are like us. And by that I mean your dumb ass.

I think we used to have our shit together much better. Ask yourself this: did australopithecus or homo erectus (that was not a gay joke, so don’t write me about it) ever buy some fake fatass doctor in a unitard’s self-help DVD complete with soothing whale song to simultaneously lobotomize you and drain your free will? I think not. Dad went out to hunt aurochs, mom gathered berries, and if their little bastard (I can say that because I’m pretty sure austalopithecus parents never bothered to marry and homo erectus parents were not legally permitted to marry- ok there’s your gay joke, now you can write me)got too uppity, they didn’t try do engage him in a meaningful dialogue that would help foster his creativity and self-esteem and make him a more sensitive citizen of the world. They told his little ass to sit down and shut the fuck up, which probably sounded more like “Gloch, glack, po-aurgungh tock.”

This seemed to be the primary approach that humans took until the 1960s, when higher education, pompous guys on acid with ponytails and bullshit PhDs, unwashed and unshaven patchouli womyn, and a bunch of other sensitive, self-help snake oil salesmen convinced you that pregnancy and parenting are harder than Chinese math and that you need specialized training (which they will give you if you pay them), their self-help book or other related products (which they will give you if you pay them), a unitard (which they will give you if you pay them), and soothing, lobotomizing whale song (which they will give you if you pay them). Further, they have convinced you, and more importantly your wife, that if you do not waste your time and money on this bullshit, you are a horrible, terrible partner and human being who probably eats live kittens and exposes himself at all the local preschools.

So even though you now know this is all a bullshit pyramid scheme concocted by the reincarnated ghost of L. Ron Hubbard [source: Wikipedia], you still have to do it. So you’re pretty much fucked. But that’s ok, fellow traveler, because so am I.

So am I.

And our journey has just begun, stupid-ass, retarded grasshopper.

Man's Guide to Pregnancy: An Introduction

No, this is not for pregnant men, like Arnold Schwarzennegger in Junior, or for that woman who had a sex change to become a man, then got knocked up.

This is for expectant fathers. And, men, I'm not going to give you some touchy-feely, Deepak Chopra, life is so beautiful ecstasy trip. Yes, there are many wonderful things about the process by which your demon-seed tadpole develops into your little bundle of screaming, pooping joy. But you're going to hear plenty about that stuff, probably while doing yoga in a unitard, soothing whale song permeating your pink, frilly environs. Instead, I'm going to try to help your confused, overwhelmed ass. I will discuss, purely for your edification, the gross, disorienting, and sometimes funny new world you have entered.

Congratulations!

No, I'm not personally saying that to you. But you're gonna hear that word a lot over the next several months. I'm just trying to desensitize you to it so you don't wince, pull a face, or get that deer-in-headlights/ I just shat myself look in your eyes. Yes, I know you are shitting bricks about being a father and all the attendant responsibilities that come with the job. But never, EVER, show your fear. And for those of you who just found out that your significant other is preggo: when people you haven't seen in a while just ring you up and randomly shout "Congratulations!" into the receiver so loud your ears bleed into your fucking shoes, don't be confused. No, you didn't unwittingly win the National League Cy Young Award or some such shit. They're simply acknowledging the fact that, in spite of what your 3rd grade teacher wrote on your report card, you are not an impotent, sterile, limp-dick who shoots blanks. Not only did you somehow convince a real live woman to have sex with you, one of your little, white, half-retarded trouser monkeys actually managed to stumble into an egg (and to think, you can't find your way to the exit at The Home Depot). On top of that, your partner liked you just enough not to abort your little hellspawn. What was I saying? Oh, yeah, the answer to "congratulations" is "thanks."

Now this is a very important stage in your life. And with every stage of life, there is an annoying, repetitive question you will be asked. Assuming you have been with your partner for a long time, you have already caved in to two really annoying "questions." I put quotations around the word questions, because they are not really questions at all. They are in fact subtle, prying nags, designed to wear you down and beat you into submission. The first question generally comes from one of your partner's female relatives every fucking time you see her: "When are you getting married?" "When are you getting married?" I know, guys. You can still hear the bloodcurdling drone, ringing through your ears and making your testicles retract into your stomach like nagging nails on a soul-draining chalkboard. Take a deep breath, you've already made like France in WWII and surrendered. You'll never hear that question again. You're safe now. It's over. I'd hug you, but that would not be very manly. And it's time to man up, you sobbing bitch.

The second so-called question comes from either one of your wife's female relatives (again, surprise, surprise) or one of her female friends who thinks you're hot so she wants you to clone yourself for her sick future enjoyment. Never mind the fact that she's like 30 years old. Every time she sees you, she'll ask, "When are you going to have a baby? You'll have beautiful children." You can start a betting pool with your wife on how long it will take for her to ask. You probably won't make it past 5 minutes (just in case you have money riding on it). And sooner or later, your wife is going to get that Angelina Jolie at a third-world orphanage boner. She'll start talking about how she wants 276 kids and start musing about potential names. The worst place she can do this is at a family gathering. The hens will all cackle their agreement and the men will be silent. Except for the miserable dicks who already have kids and want to drag your ass down with them. Here's how it goes: the Mrs wistfully talks about her interest having children. You try to be responsible and suggest waiting until you're done with school and have a good job that you can properly support a family. Sounds reasonable, right? Then some asshole you've never even met like your sister-in-law's boyfriend's brother-in-law (what the fuck is he doing there on Christmas anyway?) fucks it all up.

An evil twinkle lights his eye. A crooked smirk twists his lips. The theme from The Omen begins to play softly in the background.

Why is he smiling?

Because he has, like, 6 kids and a shit job. He is miserable. And he is a total dick. And miserable dicks love company. "Oh, they're not expensive at all," he bullshits mirthfully. When he sees the horrified look on your face, he chimes, "Oh did I just get you in trouble?" as if it were a fucking question, a delighted smirk on his face. He knows damn well he just fucked you. That was the whole point. But remember, you can't punch this asshole in the head. He's some guest's degenerate, white-trash, mongoloid third cousin or some such shit. And nothing ruins the holidays for old farts and starry-eyed little tikes like the sight of some douchebag with a Christmas tree up his ass, so you pretty much have no recourse unless you randomly bump into him in a blind alley.

Goddammit.

At any rate, either voluntarily or accidentally, you have made that beautiful baby, and if it's a boy, you have already noticed that your wife's phone rang eerily fast after she posted the ultrasound shots of his massive dong online (what, that didn't happen to you?).

The question you will now hear over and over again actually is a question, as opposed to a thinly-veiled nag to make your marital and reproductive decisions to suit somebody else's weird whims. This question is, "Are you excited?" Only women ever ask this question, as men instinctively know that this is a touchy subject. This is a well-intentioned question in spite of the fact that it raises your hackles (no, that was not a dick joke, you illiterate perv). Now remember, guys, the correct answer is a simple "Yes", because a complete answer like, "Yes, I'm so excited I can't feel my left arm. I'm not emotionally or financially ready for this. Holy shit, I can't believe I'm responsible for the life of another human being. How am I supposed to pay for all this shit? What if my wife and I split? I don't want my kid to grow up in a single-parent household--that sucks. I don't want to be an absentee, deadbeat dad; they suck. What am I supposed to do? Answer me, damn you!" just doesn't go over well. It's OK that you're thinking this shit. In fact, it shows that you care about your child's well-being. Just don't say it out loud. So let's practice, lads. "Are you excited?"

"Yes."

There you go.

Some of you may be asking, "Aaron, what are the next stages of my life and what dumbass questions accompany these magical phases?" Well, I don't know the questions, but here are the stages:

Right now you are transitioning into the lame-ass, tired-as-shit parent phase. Your life has started to ebb, and with it all your fucking energy. You have that 2:30 feeling all day long and you just want a freaking nap. You are actually starting to think about your bedtime and everything cool or fun takes place after said bedtime. Pretty soon you will stop swearing. And for that I say, "fuck you." You are also frantically trying to sell your soul and your last bit of cool to establish a stable career to support your growing family. This is a long-ass period of your life.

In your next phase of life, your mind and body will fail you. Your brain will degenerate, leaving you a drooling idiot who calls everyone mommy. Your body will shrivel into a dried up, feeble husk propelled by a Rascal which will take up the entire fucking aisle at Wal-Mart. To top it off, your prostate will swell to the size of Farmer Jenkins' pumpkin that won the blue ribbon at the county fair. You will also develop an irrational fear of minorities, the loss of your social security benefits and medicaid, and the general prospect of dying alone in a ditch (OK, that last one isn't actually irrational because that's what happens in the last phase. Okay, I'm just kidding! You won't die in a ditch. You'll die in a hospital bed. But you'll still die alone). In addition, you will develop an inexplicable fascination with model airplanes, the sanctity of your lawn, Judge Judy, Matlock, Murder She Wrote, how much shit cost when you were a kid, and paintings made by serial-killer clowns. OK, maybe that last one just applies to geriatric me.

Finally, you will either get cancer or have a stroke. You will the die alone in a hospital bed (see above).
But for now, we'll focus on your current phase: your awe (and horror)- inspiring journey to fatherhood.

Enjoy the ride. I'll be right by your side.

But I will not hold your fucking hand.



COMING UP NEXT:
Why Monkeys Are Smarter Than Your Stupid Ass