Remember when I used to piss and moan about not being able to get my wife, Cris Nieratko, pregnant? Man, those were the days. At least back then I was getting laid. Now I’m looking at six weeks until Christopher II: The Foetus Strikes Back is released and it’s all baby, all the time. No more yanky my wanky.

Did you notice I didn’t write a stupid blog entry last week?

Me neither, because every waking moment of my life is baby stuff. And he’s not even here yet. And the only thing I can tell you is every bit of every conversation regarding a baby SOUNDS EXPENSIVE. Want to be forward-thinking and save umbilical cord blood for stem cell research? That’ll run you $2000 + $200 to the doctor to remove the blood + $50 for the driver to come pick it up at the hospital+ $150 a year for 18 years to keep it on ice. $3000 for baby furniture. This kid is into me for a cool 10 large and I haven’t even met him. When’s the last time you lent even $20 to someone you haven’t met?

F me.

The highlights of the past few weeks, if you can believe there were any are:
A) My wife said I could shave her growing bush (of course she couldn’t wait for me to do it and did it herself, but the thought of it was rather exciting).

B) Lamaze class. This definitely was the best seven hours I ever spent locked in an OBGYN’s waiting room on a Saturday in the summer on the most beautiful beach day ever. To sum up the 420 minute lesson: “In through the nose, out through the mouth. AND PUSH!” I was immensely proud of myself that unknowingly I had mastered the breathing part of the class on my own over the past 35 years.

C) The dunce of the class. After two hours of the Lamaze instructor teaching us that it takes eight to 12 hours for a va-jay-jay to dilate from 0cm to 10cm, she threw out a trick question: “How long does it take for the vagina to dilate from 0cm to 10cm?”

The dufus in front of us raised his hand with such a fury and began to waive it in earnest like all the stupid kids you’ve ever gone to school with. The “Oooh, ooh, ooh!” he was muttering forewarned us his answer would not only be wrong but embarrassing to anyone who had ever been asked a question before in their life.

The instructor pointed to him and said, “Yes?” His answer – oh this is precious – “20 minutes?” And because of that dumbass the instructor went over all of it again.

D) Class cunt. There was a couple at Lamaze I hated as soon as I walked through the door. Normally it’s the fat couple but the fat couple got lucky this time because the Cunt Couple completely shielded me from their fatness. The Cunts were made up of a chiseled, jocko frat boy (creased white hat and all) and a stuck-up brat-bitch whore of a dumb sorority mum to be.

Some of her better quotes were:

“We’re due in two weeks and we haven’t even registered at the hospital (giggle).”

“We were supposed to take this class a month ago but went down and partied in Atlantic City instead (giggle).”

“Breast feeding? Gross. I don’t want to hear about that. (Leaves the room.)”

“Let’s just talk about the epidural. I want the drugs!”

And just as she was made for him, he was made for her. On our lunch break of soda and pizza pie, Mr. Cunt said aloud for all the room to hear but not to anyone in particular, “This is a doctor’s office, right? Think they have a scale? I want to weigh myself, see if this pizza added any pounds.”

Off he went to snoop about the OBGYN’s offices. He emerged from a darkened door 20 minutes after the class resumed, smiling and giving Mrs. Cunt a thumbs up. Seems the pizza had no ill effect on his awesome.

But the quote of the day, the reason for me being thankful for attending, the one and only thing that justified the $300 I paid for the class was at the end of it all when the instructor asked if anyone had any questions and Mrs. Cunt raised her hand for the first time all day.

Oh my, I thought. What kind of delightfully idiotic question could this stupid woman have? I readied my pen because I knew whatever it was would have to be written down and preserved in the annuls of time for all to enjoy with disbelief.

And despite my wildest notions of how dumb the question would be, it was worse.
“Are they going to have Wi-Fi in the delivery room? Because I’d like to be able to update my Facebook page while I’m in labour.”

I shit you not.

Ask my wife.

I couldn’t dream up such a question.

The room went silent.

Except for me, I told her what she clearly already knew. “Lady, you are great. Really. Really great. You’re gonna be a great mum.”

These are the future parents of America and we wonder why we are on a doomed planet.

We’re fucked.

Every last one of us.

Go post that on your Facebook page.

WE. ARE. FUCKED.

Photo by Adam Wright.

CHRIS NIERATKO

For more stupid, go to Chrisnieratko.com