Sunday, September 24, 2006
Spankus Interuptus, Introduction
For those gentlemen out there who have been gifted with fatherhood, I’m sure you’d agree that the entire process of having your first child is truly wonderful. From choosing with your spouse to enter the world of parenthood, to the conception, to the nine months of pregnancy with your beloved wife growing a beautiful baby, to the miracle of birth, one’s first child is a magical experience. It was no different with Angela and me.
The second time, however, is somewhat less perfect. What was, the first time, a series of new and mysterious events, becomes, the second go-round, a collective pain in the ass. Pregnancy number one is growing a precious life. Number two, although the events are identical, is mostly nine months of complaints and misery.
Please don’t misunderstand me. We were both overjoyed when our youngest came into this world, and we love her totally and unconditionally. Her birth was not an “accident,” but something what we had discussed and agreed upon. We were ecstatic when we discovered that Angela was with child.
Then, for the next nine months, Angela was utterly insufferable.
She was too fat. She was always hungry. She was never hungry. She was too hot. She was too cold. Her legs hurt. Her back hurt. Her boobs hurt.
For Maribel, these were steps to the path of making a baby. For Colette, these were reasons why she was going to inflict terrible harm on my private parts. When Maribel was on the way, Angela said, crying, “We did it! We’re having a baby!”
When labor set in prior to Colette’s birth, Angela said, “GET THIS FUCKING BABY OUT OF ME!!!!!”
Once the umbilical cord was cut, Angela returned to her normal self. And so, when I returned to work the following week, I felt the need to celebrate. Thus, several of my workmates and I paid a visit to our favorite local tavern.
Several hours and entirely too much beer later, I walked out of said tavern. Okay, that is not a true statement. Actually, I stumbled and wove my way out the door and to my car, only tripping two or three times and only falling down once, after which I climbed into my car and proceeded to drive home.
At this point in the story, I’m sure you’re saying, “What a fucking idiot! If he was so drunk he couldn’t walk, he’s awfully fucking stupid to be driving.” Any, my dear readers, you would be correct in your observation. It was, indeed, a pretty fucking stupid thing to do.
As I proceeded home, I found myself getting increasingly dizzy. Eventually, even I decided that I should get off of the road. So I pulled off of the road into an empty parking lot and exited the car to walk around a bit and take in some fresh, night air. Or so I thought.
My next recollection was of hearing a tapping on the car window. I opened my eyes and thought that I was having a religious experience. I could see nothing but a huge, white light blaring in my face. After a pause, the light moved and I heard the tapping again. It appeared that someone was tapping my car window with a flashlight.
“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” I heard a voice say. I shook my head to try to clear it. I responded in the affirmative. “Would you please step out of the car?” the voice said.
I went for the door latch and discovered that it had moved. In my pickled state, I searched for it until finally the person behind the voice opened the door for me. I managed to swing my legs out of the car, and when I looked up, I saw that the person with the flashlight was a police officer. And a woman officer, no less. I attempted to dazzle her with my smile.
“Stand up, please,” the officer ordered. I began to push myself up to a standing position, when I discovered two things. Number one, I was too drunk to stand. Number two, I was incredibly nauseous. Against my better judgment, I proceed to regurgitate much of my evenings consumption all over the poor police officer’s pants.
“Shit!” she said as she jumped back. Odd, I thought to myself, that voice seems somewhat familiar. I must be really drunk, I thought, because I don’t know any female police officers. I tried to stand again, but instead fell flat on my face, right into my own vomit. This caused me to retch again.
Ms. Police Officer stood back cursing as I completed emptying the contents of my stomach. After a few additional gags, the spasms stopped. At this point I felt a very strong hand pick me up by my collar and haul me to my feet. Holy shit, I thought, is this woman strong! My legs were still very weak, but the officer’s iron grip kept me upright. I lifted up my head to see who my jailer was going to be. To my everlasting astonishment, I looked into the face of my wife’s best friend, Bernie.
In act two, we find out what Bernie decides to do with Frank the Drunken Sot.
The second time, however, is somewhat less perfect. What was, the first time, a series of new and mysterious events, becomes, the second go-round, a collective pain in the ass. Pregnancy number one is growing a precious life. Number two, although the events are identical, is mostly nine months of complaints and misery.
Please don’t misunderstand me. We were both overjoyed when our youngest came into this world, and we love her totally and unconditionally. Her birth was not an “accident,” but something what we had discussed and agreed upon. We were ecstatic when we discovered that Angela was with child.
Then, for the next nine months, Angela was utterly insufferable.
She was too fat. She was always hungry. She was never hungry. She was too hot. She was too cold. Her legs hurt. Her back hurt. Her boobs hurt.
For Maribel, these were steps to the path of making a baby. For Colette, these were reasons why she was going to inflict terrible harm on my private parts. When Maribel was on the way, Angela said, crying, “We did it! We’re having a baby!”
When labor set in prior to Colette’s birth, Angela said, “GET THIS FUCKING BABY OUT OF ME!!!!!”
Once the umbilical cord was cut, Angela returned to her normal self. And so, when I returned to work the following week, I felt the need to celebrate. Thus, several of my workmates and I paid a visit to our favorite local tavern.
Several hours and entirely too much beer later, I walked out of said tavern. Okay, that is not a true statement. Actually, I stumbled and wove my way out the door and to my car, only tripping two or three times and only falling down once, after which I climbed into my car and proceeded to drive home.
At this point in the story, I’m sure you’re saying, “What a fucking idiot! If he was so drunk he couldn’t walk, he’s awfully fucking stupid to be driving.” Any, my dear readers, you would be correct in your observation. It was, indeed, a pretty fucking stupid thing to do.
As I proceeded home, I found myself getting increasingly dizzy. Eventually, even I decided that I should get off of the road. So I pulled off of the road into an empty parking lot and exited the car to walk around a bit and take in some fresh, night air. Or so I thought.
My next recollection was of hearing a tapping on the car window. I opened my eyes and thought that I was having a religious experience. I could see nothing but a huge, white light blaring in my face. After a pause, the light moved and I heard the tapping again. It appeared that someone was tapping my car window with a flashlight.
“Sir? Sir, are you all right?” I heard a voice say. I shook my head to try to clear it. I responded in the affirmative. “Would you please step out of the car?” the voice said.
I went for the door latch and discovered that it had moved. In my pickled state, I searched for it until finally the person behind the voice opened the door for me. I managed to swing my legs out of the car, and when I looked up, I saw that the person with the flashlight was a police officer. And a woman officer, no less. I attempted to dazzle her with my smile.
“Stand up, please,” the officer ordered. I began to push myself up to a standing position, when I discovered two things. Number one, I was too drunk to stand. Number two, I was incredibly nauseous. Against my better judgment, I proceed to regurgitate much of my evenings consumption all over the poor police officer’s pants.
“Shit!” she said as she jumped back. Odd, I thought to myself, that voice seems somewhat familiar. I must be really drunk, I thought, because I don’t know any female police officers. I tried to stand again, but instead fell flat on my face, right into my own vomit. This caused me to retch again.
Ms. Police Officer stood back cursing as I completed emptying the contents of my stomach. After a few additional gags, the spasms stopped. At this point I felt a very strong hand pick me up by my collar and haul me to my feet. Holy shit, I thought, is this woman strong! My legs were still very weak, but the officer’s iron grip kept me upright. I lifted up my head to see who my jailer was going to be. To my everlasting astonishment, I looked into the face of my wife’s best friend, Bernie.
In act two, we find out what Bernie decides to do with Frank the Drunken Sot.
