The Birth Experience.

In just a few short years, imagine the fun you'll have... just keep thinking that as you're unable to sleep for two full years.
In just a few short years, imagine the fun you’ll have… just keep thinking that as you’re unable to sleep for two full years.

“Oooh, it’s so beautiful. It’s the most amazing thing I have ever seen…” is what you’re supposed to say when someone asks you what it was like to see that bloody and slimy little rat shoot out of your woman’s vagina. Frankly, it’s more like vagina barf, but with a special prize hidden in the mess.

Nine months have passed since you shared your seed, and she’s about due. It’s probably been at least six months since you and future-mom were intimate (she was afraid your huge penis might dent her baby’s head). A few token hand jobs are in no way enough to disguise the fact that the woman you found hot enough to sleep with is now fat, sweaty, miserable, moody, and probably puking in the brand new Subaru station wagon that you hate but she forced you to purchase.

Don’t worry; regret is completely normal at this stage.

Mom-to-be is past the excitement of all the fuss and the baby showers. Now, she just wants that alien being out of her gut. She has taken over your favorite chair because it’s the only place she won’t bitch about being uncomfortable. The rule is if she has to suffer, so do you.

All the sudden, usually at the most inconvenient time possible, she feels wet in the ass. Whoopsie – what a mess. Hold the press! Stop everything! Call the address book! Her water just broke! Never you mind the disgusting mess of DNA and bodily fluid including mucus, urine, poop, bacteria, and even more fun stuff that just destroyed your favorite chair – you’ll tend to that later. It’s always better to give it a day or two to fester. For now, you’d better drop everything because it’s time for mom’s spotlight moment; the normal person’s equivalent to winning an Academy Award. Roll her fat ass into that Subaru and drive like hell to the hospital. This might be the only time you might get a pass for blowing that senseless stop sign at the end of your street with a “California roll,” so use caution, and have at it.

These days, the father is expected to be present during the birthing process. That means daddy too has to prepare for the birth in a human abnormality known as Lamaze class. Supposedly, these classes help pregnant women understand how to cope with pain in ways that both facilitate labor and promote comfort, including the initiation of strange breathing motions that were probably engineered for no other reason but to take mom’s mind off that pain. C’mon, it can’t be any worse than a smug kick in the gonads, or worse, a 6’6” monster named Bubba initiating you into the prison population. Whatever. Just suck it up and bring your pillow and check your attitude at the door at 6 PM every Wednesday night for six painful weeks as you’ll be forced to sit in some Yoga room and hold your woman’s hand and emulate her breathing with eight other pussy-whipped men.

Twenty some years ago, when my first kid was born, it was still optional for the father to be involved in the birthing process. I was present and ready with my Lamaze training like a good daddy. “Breathe, honey, breathe.” I felt like such a fag. But something went wrong. The monitoring hardware indicated that they lost the fetal heartbeat at some point during the early stages of labor. “Sir, you’ll have to wait out here,” said the masculine looking, morbidly obese medical practitioner as she grabbed my shoulder and pushed me out of the room, closing the door in my face. I very loudly and repeatedly asked what the deal was, but was shooed away. “What the fuck?” I yelled, as security quickly approached to investigate the situation.

My daughter’s mother endured an emergency Caesarian section, which for those of you who are unfamiliar with this procedure, is nothing like a salad. It’s essentially major surgery that involves cutting mom’s abdomen open and manually removing the child. In normal “natural” childbirth, the kid stretches and tears the hell out of mom’s vagina in a sometimes nasty hours-long process. But in the event the baby is positioned incorrectly, or if the umbilical cord wraps around the baby’s neck, or any other strange life-threatening malady, they’ll go in and cut the baby out to protect baby and mom.

Today, dads are expected to scrub in and hang out to see the cutting process. I’ll bet that was really cool to watch. I know I could have handled it, because I once dissected a dead frog in a driveway with a rock while I was in elementary school, and that was pretty awesome. I have always wanted to find that manly bitch who pushed me out the room and kick her in her balls.

There’s a new scary trend starting to pop up in upper socioeconomic areas. Many yuppie folks are now opting to have the birthing process at home. It’s a nouveaux way for them to be uppity as they sail back into the fond traditions of generations past. I’m all about natural remedies, better nutrition, exercise and less prescription drugs. But, in this situation, I hope these idiots are within five minutes of a hospital, because both of my kids might have died if we were that selfish. My son spent some time in the neonatal intensive care unit. I was wondering why he was gasping for air and turning blue soon after he was born. Apparently, he was choking on his own poo and we didn’t know it. Fortunately, they were able to clear his airway and pickle him with antibiotics to avoid pneumonia. He spent several days in the ICU unit. He’s a strapping and healthy young man today, but he may not have had that opportunity had he been born at home. Think about that before you let your trendy stay-at-home wife make that potentially fateful decision.

And then there’s the problem of legal torture. Apparently, male infants are not protected against cruel and unusual punishment by the Eight Amendment to the United States Constitution. So the question is left to you — to circumcise, or not to circumcise? Why? Why not? Who cares? The real question is would you let some shithead doctor cut skin of your most private part? That’s got to be painful as all hell! So why would you pay him to do that to your innocent little boy? Many monster doctors don’t even use an anesthetic during a circumcision. And since it technically is a surgery, there are associated risks including blood loss and infection. I’m no doctor, and I don’t have any religious preferences, so here’s the argument in a nutshell. Circumcision removes the natural foreskin on the shaft of the penis, leaving that little “head” part that looks like a mushroom. When you get an adult boner, you can actually still see the scars on your shaft under your head. Go ahead and look at it. Personally, I would have preferred a choice.

Some religious proponents believe a clean penis is holier. If their God didn’t want you to have a foreskin, why did He put it there? Some folks in the medical community justify circumcision as helpful from a sanitary perspective, potentially avoiding infection from bacteria that can hide beneath the foreskin. Opponents say it’s a silly, painful, cruel, and dated ritual with unfounded roots in religion that can adversely affect the sensitivity of the penis during sexual intercourse. If you teach your son to wash his penis thoroughly, he shouldn’t have an issue. Whatever you decide, remember that it is an irreversible procedure. So think about it, discuss it, and choose for your son very carefully.

Eventually, you’ll overdress your baby in that stupid blue or pink outfit and parade it out of the hospital for everyone to see. As you secure the 100 straps in your shiny new baby seat in the back seat of your shiny new Volvo, you’ll get used to the idea that you will be ignored for the next several months. You’ll begin scheming at how you can use this time to golf or play cards with the fellas, but your bubble will quickly pop as you’re expected to be immediately available at her every beck and call. Who said slavery was illegal? It’s alive and well, right here in your own home.

Since everything in America is now grown with or by genetically altered crap, it’s no longer safe to use, gasp, cow’s milk for baby. Even the baby formula you grew up with is being replaced by a nasty, odorless, nearly colorless liquid shooting out of mom’s own udders. Remember all the times you fondly nibbled on those nipples and nothing came out? From this point forward, they’ll never seem quite the same, you sick perverted bastard. How could you? That cute, adorable, helpless little munchkin will be suckling on those nips for sustenance, day and night, for the next several months.

Oh, and sex? Forget it. Better find a quiet place and some magazines, because the pleasure palace is closed indefinitely. Remember, you were there, a nine-pound turkey just came out of her vagina. That love hole was stretched and ripped to about twenty times its normal size. She probably had to have it snipped a bit to allow that baby to come out. In her defense, she’ll have to heal from stitches. What? She didn’t have stitches? You’d better hope she had stitches, or that tiny love canal will now be as wide as a great lake. It’s no fun banging around in a grand canyon when you used to be hugged firmly in a tiny crevice.

Remember your “office?” Your man cave has been evacuated, and your former office has now been painted an awful pastel color. And there are birds and balloons and all kinds of happy shit adorning the walls where your college degree and baseball trophies used to live. Hope your garage is air conditioned.

Get used to terms like “Diaper Genie”, “Huggies”, and Wipies. If your son has been circumcised, you’ll need to apply some kind of cream to his poor little wee-wee so it won’t become infected. That seems nasty and illegal, but you, as a parent, will be obligated to take on this chore. The bottom line is you’ll be exposed to blood, pus, snot, poop, piss, puke, and all kinds of other nastiness no one talks about and no one warned you about. If you’re the squeamish type, you’d better buckle up.

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