Dear Governor Mardens,
Now that our nice, quiet state has legalized the sale of fireworks, and our economy has been fixed because this, of course, created a hundred and fifty or so new, temporary jobs* and made some out of state companies a lot of money, I think it’s time to move into phase two. Maine, as you know, is open for business.
Are you familiar with Darra Adem Khel, Pakistan? Darra is a charming little town, just South of Khyber Pass and is way more open for business than we are. Like Maine, Darra is a popular destination for a certain breed of tourist looking for an exciting, quirky, out of the way place. Also, like Maine of late, a visitor strolling down Darra’s dusty streets will be greeted by a constant, jolly pop of small explosions. Darra, you see, is a legendary gun market where craftsmen can build perfect, hand-made replicas of any fire arm presented to them. Instead of fire crackers, diluted cherry bombs and tanks, residents and consumers in Darra are firing off AK-47s, Elephant Guns and just about any other fire arm you can imagine.
Of course, unlike Maine’s fireworks stands, the goods are locally produced. There’s actually an industry behind them. Also, unlike Maine’s fireworks stands, that money stays in Darra instead of going out of state or out of the country.
Let’s do this. Darra’s a third world shithole. While the nights in Portland lately sound like Tijuana, what with the constant rattle of fireworks and drunken wooing, we’re still squarely in the first world. There’s no reason we can’t.
Now, I know what you’re thinking. The legality of turning Maine into a gigantic, third world knock off gun market is questionable at best. There are copyrights and treaties to consider, local gun ordinances in place, not to mention the feelings of the Liberals. Oh the Liberals will hate this plan. They’ll be fuming in their teepees, pounding bongos and waving rain sticks around, trying to find a way to torpedo this industrial revolution on the grounds that guns are evil.
Let’s start with how to skirt copyright issues. We won’t be making American guns. We’ll leave that to local companies like Bushmaster and Remington. Instead, we will be making Chinese QBZ-95s, Russian AK-Ms and other guns from potential enemies into All-American guns. Doesn’t that sound snappy?
Local fire arms ordinances will be a non-issue. Like local fireworks bans, they will be completely ineffective. The police will simply not be able to enforce the bans due to the sheer amount of complaints they will be receiving.
As for the Liberals, it’s not like they actually vote.
Huggles!
-Matt Cargile, independent voter.
*For fuck's sake, they better be temporary.
Thursday, July 5, 2012
Monday, March 12, 2012
THE HATEFUL MAN'S GUIDE TO DAYLIGHT SAVINGS TIME
"Ugh."
"Uuuuuuuuuuughh...."
"Gaaaaaaaaaaawd."
Quit your belly aching, Nancy. Yes, you are cranky. You had to wake up, and some long dead dick decided to pull a long dead dick move and set your clock ahead an hour. You and everyone else. And that is fucking awesome.
Daylight Savings Sunday and The Monday After Spring Forward are Hateful Man holidays. Everyone is miserable and irritated, and that is fucking great. Shit, if you could drink a .40 at work, this could be the most entertaining day of your life - even more entertaining than that otherwise ordinary day when they actually did let you pound a .40 at work. Ah, student teaching!
Obviously, unless you you are a tenured college professor or lion tamer, drinking malt liquor at work is not an option. So how does one actually celebrate Spring Forward as a Hateful Man?
Here are seven great ideas for this sacred holiday:
1. Be Prepared, Be Happy - the most irritating thing that you can possibly do to the rest of the world today is to be absolutely chipper. As such, you need to have been preparing for this day for at least a week. Start waking up an hour early the saturday before DST. Exercise for an hour before work in lieu of coffee so that you are pumped up on endorphins, not caffeine. Smile. Tell people to cheer up. Shadow box. Do whatever it takes to convey that you are both happy and an absolute alpha motherfucker
2. Take Your Unwholesome, Poorly Behaved Child to Work - its possible, though unlikely due to the inherent dickishness of daylight savings time, that your child may be on spring break this week. If so, dress them up like Little Lord Fontleroy, give them a humungous lollipop and stick them in the break room or next to the fax/copier and tell them to cry about a dead, imaginary puppy. On a normal day, no one wants to deal with that kind of awkward. Now imagine it with an hour less sleep.
3. It's lent, bitches. Inevitably, your co-workers are probably going to be freebasing their double-doubles and doing lines of the blackest Sumatran off their keyboards. What better time to start boasting about how you've given up caffeine for Jesus and guilt tripping them for being a bunch of heretical pussies. Am I suggesting that you should actually quit coffee for lent in preparation? No. But try to quit drinking caffeine at work. I did. It was easy, and if you can't do so, you're a fucking mollycoddled, heathen pantywaist.
4. Dazzle them! Unfortunately, the National Flash-Bang Association does not have the clout that the NRA does, so you can't fling stun grenades with impunity yet. Recently, however, my state joined the ranks of many other shit ass hillbilly states and legalized fireworks sales. While I'm not looking forward to the annual Independence Day drunken jackass parade/unpreventable firestorm, I definitely see an upside to this newly earned freedom. There is now nothing stopping me from procuring strings of firecrackers to fling at my drowsy, irritable employees on spring forward as they slowly lurch their way across the parking lot or emerge from the bathroom.
5. Unexploited Ordinance Check your local charter's noise regulations, and then start using a leaf blower on Sunday morning at the earliest possible time. It's like getting an extra hour of dickishness in because your neighbors won't wake up early.
6. Be Preparedness It's a scientifically proven fact that Day Light Savings Sunday is the single best time of year to test your smoke detectors to see if they work, replace the batteries, and then test them again with the new batteries just to be on the extra safe side. Do it early, do it often and then do it a couple more times throughout the day. If your housemates complain, accuse them of being unsafe commies, blow the shrillest whistle you can find and yell "Be preparedness!!" at them.
7. Santa Lucia's Revenge For some reason, despite not having even a single drop of Nordic blood in veins, my family has always celebrated Santa Lucia Day, complete with my mother and/or sister wearing a wreath with fake candles on their head and bringing everyone Santa Lucia bread in bed. On Spring Forward Sunday, have your mother come in to your dwelling dressed in a white, flowing gown with a flaming garland around her brow, then have her kick in every door while blaring an air horn. Your housemates will literally shit themselves in terror.
Full disclosure: I've been working on this post since 2010. I always start it up a day before DST and never finish. I figured it best to just put it out there, even if its not my best work.
"Uuuuuuuuuuughh...."
"Gaaaaaaaaaaawd."
Quit your belly aching, Nancy. Yes, you are cranky. You had to wake up, and some long dead dick decided to pull a long dead dick move and set your clock ahead an hour. You and everyone else. And that is fucking awesome.
Daylight Savings Sunday and The Monday After Spring Forward are Hateful Man holidays. Everyone is miserable and irritated, and that is fucking great. Shit, if you could drink a .40 at work, this could be the most entertaining day of your life - even more entertaining than that otherwise ordinary day when they actually did let you pound a .40 at work. Ah, student teaching!
Obviously, unless you you are a tenured college professor or lion tamer, drinking malt liquor at work is not an option. So how does one actually celebrate Spring Forward as a Hateful Man?
Here are seven great ideas for this sacred holiday:
1. Be Prepared, Be Happy - the most irritating thing that you can possibly do to the rest of the world today is to be absolutely chipper. As such, you need to have been preparing for this day for at least a week. Start waking up an hour early the saturday before DST. Exercise for an hour before work in lieu of coffee so that you are pumped up on endorphins, not caffeine. Smile. Tell people to cheer up. Shadow box. Do whatever it takes to convey that you are both happy and an absolute alpha motherfucker
2. Take Your Unwholesome, Poorly Behaved Child to Work - its possible, though unlikely due to the inherent dickishness of daylight savings time, that your child may be on spring break this week. If so, dress them up like Little Lord Fontleroy, give them a humungous lollipop and stick them in the break room or next to the fax/copier and tell them to cry about a dead, imaginary puppy. On a normal day, no one wants to deal with that kind of awkward. Now imagine it with an hour less sleep.
3. It's lent, bitches. Inevitably, your co-workers are probably going to be freebasing their double-doubles and doing lines of the blackest Sumatran off their keyboards. What better time to start boasting about how you've given up caffeine for Jesus and guilt tripping them for being a bunch of heretical pussies. Am I suggesting that you should actually quit coffee for lent in preparation? No. But try to quit drinking caffeine at work. I did. It was easy, and if you can't do so, you're a fucking mollycoddled, heathen pantywaist.
4. Dazzle them! Unfortunately, the National Flash-Bang Association does not have the clout that the NRA does, so you can't fling stun grenades with impunity yet. Recently, however, my state joined the ranks of many other shit ass hillbilly states and legalized fireworks sales. While I'm not looking forward to the annual Independence Day drunken jackass parade/unpreventable firestorm, I definitely see an upside to this newly earned freedom. There is now nothing stopping me from procuring strings of firecrackers to fling at my drowsy, irritable employees on spring forward as they slowly lurch their way across the parking lot or emerge from the bathroom.
5. Unexploited Ordinance Check your local charter's noise regulations, and then start using a leaf blower on Sunday morning at the earliest possible time. It's like getting an extra hour of dickishness in because your neighbors won't wake up early.
6. Be Preparedness It's a scientifically proven fact that Day Light Savings Sunday is the single best time of year to test your smoke detectors to see if they work, replace the batteries, and then test them again with the new batteries just to be on the extra safe side. Do it early, do it often and then do it a couple more times throughout the day. If your housemates complain, accuse them of being unsafe commies, blow the shrillest whistle you can find and yell "Be preparedness!!" at them.
7. Santa Lucia's Revenge For some reason, despite not having even a single drop of Nordic blood in veins, my family has always celebrated Santa Lucia Day, complete with my mother and/or sister wearing a wreath with fake candles on their head and bringing everyone Santa Lucia bread in bed. On Spring Forward Sunday, have your mother come in to your dwelling dressed in a white, flowing gown with a flaming garland around her brow, then have her kick in every door while blaring an air horn. Your housemates will literally shit themselves in terror.
Full disclosure: I've been working on this post since 2010. I always start it up a day before DST and never finish. I figured it best to just put it out there, even if its not my best work.
Saturday, May 21, 2011
I Hate Parker Dorsey - Chapter First
Parker Dorsey woke up to the sound of a car alarm going off in his driveway. Parker did not own a car with an alarm in it, nor did he own a driveway, so the situation muddled him greatly.
He stepped out of his bathroom, having passed out next to the toilet several hours earlier due to a tragic love of Cabana Boy Rum and Wild Berry Airborne. Parker had a cold... or a hangover… or maybe he just liked the bubbles. What ever. He was a grown man, and he had needs that could only be addressed by drinking coconut flavored rum that had a Tom of Finland-ish pool boy on the bottle until he had to vomit in the magazine rack next to the toilet bowl. He justified chundering on the issues of Redbook and OK! That had been there since he moved in two years ago by claiming that puking in the toilet only made him puke more.
Ah, but back to the car alarm in Parker’s nonexistent driveway. Stepping out of the bathroom of his first floor apartment, Parker discovered that a lime green PT Cruiser had crashed into his kitchen. It was empty, save for someone’s discarded clothes and a clearly un-ironic dashboard Jesus.
“Mmm,” grunted the lanky, twenty five year old hipster with the ironic mustache. Empty, crashed car, discarded clothes. This was clearly the work of the elderly that he so despised. And now, there was a naked elderly Christian running amuck on Munjoy Hill who must be destroyed.
The alarm was still blaring. He’d deal with the nude codger that had wrecked his little slice of heaven after breakfast, but first he had to find some way to shut that wailing banshee up. Why did the PT Cruiser even have a car alarm anyway? No self-respecting car thief would want to drive one of those geriatric fail boats. After flinging an empty bottle of Cabana Boy, a meat tenderizer and the entire contents of a bottle of hand soap at the accursed vehicle, he gave it two squirts from the sinks sprayer attachment, and the alarm shorted out.
After a moment, he regretted his decision. Having a car alarm constantly blaring from a shitty geezer mobile was kind of ironic or something. At the very least, it was a conversation piece for when he’d invite the girls from MECA who came into his shop back to his house.
Parker ran Peter Pan Complex Records, a specialty thrift shop that did not actually sell records. He mostly sold shoes he found at garage sales. And by mostly, I mean he sold a pair of vintage white and neon green Rebok Pumps to one of his employees. His parents in Connecticut truly understood that the shop was a labor of love and paid his bills. He was actually scheduled to open the shop at eleven today, but like most days, he hadn’t planned on getting there until at least two, and now that there was a naked old man or woman skulking about the hill, he didn’t really see the point of working at all.
Such was life for Parker Dorsey.
He stepped out of his bathroom, having passed out next to the toilet several hours earlier due to a tragic love of Cabana Boy Rum and Wild Berry Airborne. Parker had a cold... or a hangover… or maybe he just liked the bubbles. What ever. He was a grown man, and he had needs that could only be addressed by drinking coconut flavored rum that had a Tom of Finland-ish pool boy on the bottle until he had to vomit in the magazine rack next to the toilet bowl. He justified chundering on the issues of Redbook and OK! That had been there since he moved in two years ago by claiming that puking in the toilet only made him puke more.
Ah, but back to the car alarm in Parker’s nonexistent driveway. Stepping out of the bathroom of his first floor apartment, Parker discovered that a lime green PT Cruiser had crashed into his kitchen. It was empty, save for someone’s discarded clothes and a clearly un-ironic dashboard Jesus.
“Mmm,” grunted the lanky, twenty five year old hipster with the ironic mustache. Empty, crashed car, discarded clothes. This was clearly the work of the elderly that he so despised. And now, there was a naked elderly Christian running amuck on Munjoy Hill who must be destroyed.
The alarm was still blaring. He’d deal with the nude codger that had wrecked his little slice of heaven after breakfast, but first he had to find some way to shut that wailing banshee up. Why did the PT Cruiser even have a car alarm anyway? No self-respecting car thief would want to drive one of those geriatric fail boats. After flinging an empty bottle of Cabana Boy, a meat tenderizer and the entire contents of a bottle of hand soap at the accursed vehicle, he gave it two squirts from the sinks sprayer attachment, and the alarm shorted out.
After a moment, he regretted his decision. Having a car alarm constantly blaring from a shitty geezer mobile was kind of ironic or something. At the very least, it was a conversation piece for when he’d invite the girls from MECA who came into his shop back to his house.
Parker ran Peter Pan Complex Records, a specialty thrift shop that did not actually sell records. He mostly sold shoes he found at garage sales. And by mostly, I mean he sold a pair of vintage white and neon green Rebok Pumps to one of his employees. His parents in Connecticut truly understood that the shop was a labor of love and paid his bills. He was actually scheduled to open the shop at eleven today, but like most days, he hadn’t planned on getting there until at least two, and now that there was a naked old man or woman skulking about the hill, he didn’t really see the point of working at all.
Such was life for Parker Dorsey.
Friday, May 13, 2011
CHAPTER 868: CROMATOLGISTICS
Recently, a large collection of books by a certain litigious religion found their way into the break room at work. Upon perusal of this material, I was amazed at just how brilliant these books were in terms of utilizing the utter meaningless of buzzwords in a way that makes the reader feel like they are unlocking the secrets of the universe. It was like someone had taken a McDonald's pamphlet on how they help the inner city by providing low paying jobs to the disenfranchised and turned it into a religion.
And it inspired me to create my own set of texts regarding the the proper reverence of Crom. Check it out!
What follows is a passage from CROMATOLOGISTICS: BOOK 12: SELF-HATEFUL-MANAGEMENT PART VIII - HATEFUL CLARITY AND THE POWERLESSNESS OF BUZZ WORDS
There was only ever one to Avatar and Prophet of Crom. His name was H. Russell Cardigan. He was an amateur science fiction and horror writer from Durham, ME who hoped to follow in the footsteps of fellow Durhamite, Stephen King, but the only thing that he ever managed to get published was an embarrassing, traced drawing of girl-Ranma in an issue of Nintendo Gaming Quarterly.
Shortly before his untimely death (attributed to the misuse of a Swedish Body Enhancement Device while driving), Cardigan came to believe that Crom, a Proto-Celtic deity with a tenuous connection to Valhalla was speaking to him in his dreams and started writing everything he was told down in wide ruled note books. While the vast majority of what Cardigan transcribed was an unbelievably long-winded string belittling comments about Cardigan's lack of masculinity and his mother's poor personal hygiene, as well as a diatribe about how Star Trek the Next Generation was better before Jonathan Frakes grew a beard, selected portions of these transcripts came to form the 125 volumes of Cromatologistics: A Logical System of Hateful Thought. In this selection, we will look at Cardigan's maxims regarding caution toward the manipulation of words in the Cromatologistic directed, self management systems.
An average person is asked "What is it that you hope to achieve, how do you intend to attain it, and why?".
There is a pause as this average person considers the question. Being an average person with average goals, they want what most people want - stupid material bullshit, hot sex and the ability to make people they dislike grovel before them. Being an average person with average motivation, intellect and patience, they have not actually accomplished these things because they have not figured out why they have not been given them as a reward for little or no effort. Eventually, this average person answers "Get rich by winning the lottery or American Idol, because I want stuff."
A Hateful Man is asked "what is it that you hope to achieve, how do you intend to attain it, and why?".
There is no pause. The Hateful Man knows the answer because he has long since achieved hateful clarity. The answer that he gives is clear, concise and to the point, because the hateful man has focused his life.
In a state of Hateful Clarity the Hateful Man sees his potential in the observation of reality, not in speculative accumulation of material gain, because he knows that it is only through the manipulation of reality, not the manipulation by fantasy that one can actually fulfill his or her needs and prioritize his or her wants in a manner that may allow them to be attained.
In order to achieve that which is a state of hateful clarity, one must be stripped of all endoingness - that is the intent to use nonexistent buzz words to seem more actively engaged in their own achievement than their average intelligence dictates. A person with an endoingness may or may not maximize their potentialness visa vie the use of such jargon, but they will never be born an elderly Chinese woman unless they are Chinese, female and have progeria.
Without an endoingness, there is no empowerment, and within that void one may actually find power. It is power that one should strive for, as it is power which our Lord Crom wields from his mountain throne on high, and its power that will enable you to rise above the powerless, not a sense of empowerment bestowed upon you by your ability to add extra suffixes and prefixes to words that do not require them.
There are some who would argue that this maxim invalidates their central beingness, that it strips them of purpose because it makes a mockery of their profession and their entire system of belief. Have they not accomplished, they exclaim, a station in life that enables them to enable others through the application of new linguistic dynamics into the field of embetterment of ones pillar of self-esteem? And they would be right, for their purpose is the viral spread gibberish to placate the unaccomplished with self-aggrandizing nu-speak, and Crom mocks them, for to him, their beingness of endoingness is the application of meaninglessness and where there is no meaning, there is also void, and from this void, one can seize ridicule and fling it back in the face of those who seek to attain nothingness for the accumulation of meaninglessness like the proverbial monkey with so much dung.
To be hateful is to realize the potential of reality, to realize that reality is real and meaninglessness is dumb, and to act as a smirking beacon of solace to those who also see the meaninglessness for what it is. That is why, when asked that initial question, the hateful man hisses "Don't fuck with me. I am Ahab.", bag tags the questioner and continues on his way to the food court, because those people who stop you and ask you questions at the mall are one step above carnival barkers.
And it inspired me to create my own set of texts regarding the the proper reverence of Crom. Check it out!
What follows is a passage from CROMATOLOGISTICS: BOOK 12: SELF-HATEFUL-MANAGEMENT PART VIII - HATEFUL CLARITY AND THE POWERLESSNESS OF BUZZ WORDS
There was only ever one to Avatar and Prophet of Crom. His name was H. Russell Cardigan. He was an amateur science fiction and horror writer from Durham, ME who hoped to follow in the footsteps of fellow Durhamite, Stephen King, but the only thing that he ever managed to get published was an embarrassing, traced drawing of girl-Ranma in an issue of Nintendo Gaming Quarterly.
Shortly before his untimely death (attributed to the misuse of a Swedish Body Enhancement Device while driving), Cardigan came to believe that Crom, a Proto-Celtic deity with a tenuous connection to Valhalla was speaking to him in his dreams and started writing everything he was told down in wide ruled note books. While the vast majority of what Cardigan transcribed was an unbelievably long-winded string belittling comments about Cardigan's lack of masculinity and his mother's poor personal hygiene, as well as a diatribe about how Star Trek the Next Generation was better before Jonathan Frakes grew a beard, selected portions of these transcripts came to form the 125 volumes of Cromatologistics: A Logical System of Hateful Thought. In this selection, we will look at Cardigan's maxims regarding caution toward the manipulation of words in the Cromatologistic directed, self management systems.
An average person is asked "What is it that you hope to achieve, how do you intend to attain it, and why?".
There is a pause as this average person considers the question. Being an average person with average goals, they want what most people want - stupid material bullshit, hot sex and the ability to make people they dislike grovel before them. Being an average person with average motivation, intellect and patience, they have not actually accomplished these things because they have not figured out why they have not been given them as a reward for little or no effort. Eventually, this average person answers "Get rich by winning the lottery or American Idol, because I want stuff."
A Hateful Man is asked "what is it that you hope to achieve, how do you intend to attain it, and why?".
There is no pause. The Hateful Man knows the answer because he has long since achieved hateful clarity. The answer that he gives is clear, concise and to the point, because the hateful man has focused his life.
In a state of Hateful Clarity the Hateful Man sees his potential in the observation of reality, not in speculative accumulation of material gain, because he knows that it is only through the manipulation of reality, not the manipulation by fantasy that one can actually fulfill his or her needs and prioritize his or her wants in a manner that may allow them to be attained.
In order to achieve that which is a state of hateful clarity, one must be stripped of all endoingness - that is the intent to use nonexistent buzz words to seem more actively engaged in their own achievement than their average intelligence dictates. A person with an endoingness may or may not maximize their potentialness visa vie the use of such jargon, but they will never be born an elderly Chinese woman unless they are Chinese, female and have progeria.
Without an endoingness, there is no empowerment, and within that void one may actually find power. It is power that one should strive for, as it is power which our Lord Crom wields from his mountain throne on high, and its power that will enable you to rise above the powerless, not a sense of empowerment bestowed upon you by your ability to add extra suffixes and prefixes to words that do not require them.
There are some who would argue that this maxim invalidates their central beingness, that it strips them of purpose because it makes a mockery of their profession and their entire system of belief. Have they not accomplished, they exclaim, a station in life that enables them to enable others through the application of new linguistic dynamics into the field of embetterment of ones pillar of self-esteem? And they would be right, for their purpose is the viral spread gibberish to placate the unaccomplished with self-aggrandizing nu-speak, and Crom mocks them, for to him, their beingness of endoingness is the application of meaninglessness and where there is no meaning, there is also void, and from this void, one can seize ridicule and fling it back in the face of those who seek to attain nothingness for the accumulation of meaninglessness like the proverbial monkey with so much dung.
To be hateful is to realize the potential of reality, to realize that reality is real and meaninglessness is dumb, and to act as a smirking beacon of solace to those who also see the meaninglessness for what it is. That is why, when asked that initial question, the hateful man hisses "Don't fuck with me. I am Ahab.", bag tags the questioner and continues on his way to the food court, because those people who stop you and ask you questions at the mall are one step above carnival barkers.
Friday, May 6, 2011
CHAPTER 867: Chain Restaurant Sexuality
I don't even know how to preface what follows. I simply woke up in the middle of the night on Monday, thinking about eating at certain moderately priced chains of microwave steakhouses and how they strike me as incredibly tacky, unsexy places to take a date, and a bunch of disturbing, jocko-homo-tinged corporate sexuality began flowing out of me.
Behold!
STEAKHOUSE STEAKHOUSE PRESENTS: HOW TO GET SEXED - A GUIDE TO PITCHING WOO AT THE SALAD BAR FOR MEN
Hello, loyal Steakhouse Steakhouse customer. We value your patronage.
At Steakhouse Steakhouse, we specialize in three things - steak, seafood, salad, and giving you the opportunity to potentially fornicate, all at a reasonable, slightly above fast food price point. That is why we, along with our co-sponsors Ovulite Weight Loss Formula for Pregnant Women and Zorba the Greek Sheepskin Condoms have compiled this helpful guide to charming the pants off of your date, starting with a relatively pleasant dinner at Steakhouse Steakhouse .
Doubtless, tonight is a special night. Maybe its alternative adult continuing education prom night. Maybe you found out that they hand out condoms in the guidance office. Maybe your girlfriend's annoying chihuahua with a mildly incredibly racist name died under mysterious circumstances involving pliers. Regardless, you've come to Steakhouse Steakhouse hoping to end the night by getting sexed, and as such, you have made an excellent choice.
ATTIRE
Getting sexed and tossing a salad have a lot in common, and the secret is under every runny nose at our world-famous Three Mile Salad Island. Of course, we're referring to dressing and not ham cubes. How you choose to dress yourself can go a long way to sealing the deal at the end of the night. Think about the message that you want to send to your lady friend with your clothes. Consider wearing a button down shirt and a tie. You can never overdress for Steakhouse Steakhouse. Make it a clean shirt, bolo tie and cowboy boots, then throw in a thick mustache and a cowboy hat and your date will know that you are hungry for more than just our mouth watering All-You Can Eat Steak Stampede.
THE WAITING ROOM
At Steakhouse Steakhouse, we know that you may have to wait an inexplicably long time to be seated, even though you can see that half of our dining room isn't even in use. That's why we give you those light up coasters which you can use in the bar. And speaking of the bar, when a member of our suspiciously pleasant wait staff asks you if you would like to order a beverage, he or she isn't JUST asking you if you would like to order a beverage. He or she is asking if you are planning on getting sexed tonight. The answer should always be yes, and the longer, stupider, and more culturally insensitive the name of the beverages you choose are, the more likely it is that your date will consider doing the sex with you.
For example, ordering a pair of colas for you and your date might get you the old "John, you're a really nice guy, but I find you sexually repellent because nothing about you is even remotely virile. In fact, your very being exudes impending death and the sounds you make every time you you breathe make me vomit a little. Here. I saved my vomit in this Pringles can, which i expect you to empty after you drop me off several blocks from my house so that walking through the night air can cleanse me of your stench before I get home."
However, if you order her our Hey Mon Jamaican Rum Fire Burn Ya Bloodclot Colada or our Provisional-Schmovisional Potato Famine Vodka Infused Gin-Blossom Having Ted Kennedy Approved Irish Car Bomb, there's a good chance your date she wont even bother with words. She'll just lunge at you and growl like a panther, which either means that she wants to sex it down with you, or she's some kind of lycanthropic panther and is going to devour your larynx. We sincerely hope its not the latter! Me-yow!
Assuming you and your date do not wish to imbibe in any of the nearly two hundred and sixty specialty beverages served in our bar while waiting to be seated, we recommend talking loudly on your blue tooth headset to anyone besides your date. This will show her that you know people who take priority over her, impress her with how important you seem and cause her to become flushed and dizzy with lust or carbon monoxide poisoning.
APPETIZERS
Do you know who forgoes appetizers? The guy who doesn't get sexed. So order at least one, if not two of our sexy, microwaved to order batter, fat and translucent meat concoctions, but choose carefully. Appetizers are like foreplay. They tell your date how you are going to proceed when its time to get sexed. We recommend a combination of our most expensive and our most decadent ones, like our Fried Lobster Fries and our Smoked Bacon Cheddar Onion Ring Sliders. You're sure to slide into home base with that combo. Shucks, if you throw in some of our Jumpin' Jack Flask Whiskey Pepper Poppers you might even slide into the dugout. By that we mean the butt.
THE MAIN COURSE
To really seal the deal, you pretty much have to buy her one of our Fin-Steak-Tional Surf 'N' Turf Favorites. You'll be amazed and possibly a little sickened as she becomes uncontrollably aroused like a mandrill in heat while supping on our award-winning Captain Horatio Steakhaus's Fresno Lobster Tank Fresh Imitation Imitation Crabmeat and Texas Toast Steak-Um Combo or our Veal-Hauled Sea Cow Fried Seafood and Veal Slider Platter. For a less disturbing, but equally sensual dining experience, you can show her you care about "the issues" and imperil her wetlands with our Deepwater Disaster N'Orleans Crawfish Gumbo served in one of our world-famous Steakbowls. An insignificant portion of the proceeds from every Steakbowl we sell goes to help support British Petroleum's off-shore drilling public relations campaign.
THE JUST DESERTS
Ladies, we know you're reading this and we know that you have appetites too... For cheesecake! Don't shamelessly give it up to the schlub who dragged you here unless he buys you one of our twelve delicious cheesecakes. They're sinfully moist because they're amorally high in saturated fat, corn syrup and cholesterol.
In closing, we at Steakhouse Steakhouse sincerely hope that you actually manage to make whoopie on top of your date before you begin to really digest your meal and become stricken with the inevitable, mysterious, socially crippling case of irritable bowel syndrome that has absolutely nothing to do with your mediocre dining experience at one of our 1,250 locations in the United States and Canada.
Behold!
STEAKHOUSE STEAKHOUSE PRESENTS: HOW TO GET SEXED - A GUIDE TO PITCHING WOO AT THE SALAD BAR FOR MEN
Hello, loyal Steakhouse Steakhouse customer. We value your patronage.
At Steakhouse Steakhouse, we specialize in three things - steak, seafood, salad, and giving you the opportunity to potentially fornicate, all at a reasonable, slightly above fast food price point. That is why we, along with our co-sponsors Ovulite Weight Loss Formula for Pregnant Women and Zorba the Greek Sheepskin Condoms have compiled this helpful guide to charming the pants off of your date, starting with a relatively pleasant dinner at Steakhouse Steakhouse .
Doubtless, tonight is a special night. Maybe its alternative adult continuing education prom night. Maybe you found out that they hand out condoms in the guidance office. Maybe your girlfriend's annoying chihuahua with a mildly incredibly racist name died under mysterious circumstances involving pliers. Regardless, you've come to Steakhouse Steakhouse hoping to end the night by getting sexed, and as such, you have made an excellent choice.
ATTIRE
Getting sexed and tossing a salad have a lot in common, and the secret is under every runny nose at our world-famous Three Mile Salad Island. Of course, we're referring to dressing and not ham cubes. How you choose to dress yourself can go a long way to sealing the deal at the end of the night. Think about the message that you want to send to your lady friend with your clothes. Consider wearing a button down shirt and a tie. You can never overdress for Steakhouse Steakhouse. Make it a clean shirt, bolo tie and cowboy boots, then throw in a thick mustache and a cowboy hat and your date will know that you are hungry for more than just our mouth watering All-You Can Eat Steak Stampede.
THE WAITING ROOM
At Steakhouse Steakhouse, we know that you may have to wait an inexplicably long time to be seated, even though you can see that half of our dining room isn't even in use. That's why we give you those light up coasters which you can use in the bar. And speaking of the bar, when a member of our suspiciously pleasant wait staff asks you if you would like to order a beverage, he or she isn't JUST asking you if you would like to order a beverage. He or she is asking if you are planning on getting sexed tonight. The answer should always be yes, and the longer, stupider, and more culturally insensitive the name of the beverages you choose are, the more likely it is that your date will consider doing the sex with you.
For example, ordering a pair of colas for you and your date might get you the old "John, you're a really nice guy, but I find you sexually repellent because nothing about you is even remotely virile. In fact, your very being exudes impending death and the sounds you make every time you you breathe make me vomit a little. Here. I saved my vomit in this Pringles can, which i expect you to empty after you drop me off several blocks from my house so that walking through the night air can cleanse me of your stench before I get home."
However, if you order her our Hey Mon Jamaican Rum Fire Burn Ya Bloodclot Colada or our Provisional-Schmovisional Potato Famine Vodka Infused Gin-Blossom Having Ted Kennedy Approved Irish Car Bomb, there's a good chance your date she wont even bother with words. She'll just lunge at you and growl like a panther, which either means that she wants to sex it down with you, or she's some kind of lycanthropic panther and is going to devour your larynx. We sincerely hope its not the latter! Me-yow!
Assuming you and your date do not wish to imbibe in any of the nearly two hundred and sixty specialty beverages served in our bar while waiting to be seated, we recommend talking loudly on your blue tooth headset to anyone besides your date. This will show her that you know people who take priority over her, impress her with how important you seem and cause her to become flushed and dizzy with lust or carbon monoxide poisoning.
APPETIZERS
Do you know who forgoes appetizers? The guy who doesn't get sexed. So order at least one, if not two of our sexy, microwaved to order batter, fat and translucent meat concoctions, but choose carefully. Appetizers are like foreplay. They tell your date how you are going to proceed when its time to get sexed. We recommend a combination of our most expensive and our most decadent ones, like our Fried Lobster Fries and our Smoked Bacon Cheddar Onion Ring Sliders. You're sure to slide into home base with that combo. Shucks, if you throw in some of our Jumpin' Jack Flask Whiskey Pepper Poppers you might even slide into the dugout. By that we mean the butt.
THE MAIN COURSE
To really seal the deal, you pretty much have to buy her one of our Fin-Steak-Tional Surf 'N' Turf Favorites. You'll be amazed and possibly a little sickened as she becomes uncontrollably aroused like a mandrill in heat while supping on our award-winning Captain Horatio Steakhaus's Fresno Lobster Tank Fresh Imitation Imitation Crabmeat and Texas Toast Steak-Um Combo or our Veal-Hauled Sea Cow Fried Seafood and Veal Slider Platter. For a less disturbing, but equally sensual dining experience, you can show her you care about "the issues" and imperil her wetlands with our Deepwater Disaster N'Orleans Crawfish Gumbo served in one of our world-famous Steakbowls. An insignificant portion of the proceeds from every Steakbowl we sell goes to help support British Petroleum's off-shore drilling public relations campaign.
THE JUST DESERTS
Ladies, we know you're reading this and we know that you have appetites too... For cheesecake! Don't shamelessly give it up to the schlub who dragged you here unless he buys you one of our twelve delicious cheesecakes. They're sinfully moist because they're amorally high in saturated fat, corn syrup and cholesterol.
In closing, we at Steakhouse Steakhouse sincerely hope that you actually manage to make whoopie on top of your date before you begin to really digest your meal and become stricken with the inevitable, mysterious, socially crippling case of irritable bowel syndrome that has absolutely nothing to do with your mediocre dining experience at one of our 1,250 locations in the United States and Canada.
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Chapter 866: Space Balls or So I've Been Reduced to Complaining About the Prequel Trilogy
I’ll fully own up to being a complete nerd when it comes to the original Star Wars trilogy. The Empire Strikes Back is the second movie I remember seeing (the first being Bambi), the first I actually enjoyed, and remains my favorite movie of all time. I learned to read with the old Marvel Star Wars comics. I first became a pack rat collecting Star Wars figures. It really did shape my childhood. So it was only a matter of time before this blog turned toward talking shit about the prequel trilogy.
When The Phantom Menace came out in 1999, I went in with big expectations, and walked out of the theatre bewildered. Beyond the immediate issues of over-reliance on CGI special effects, cute kids and offensively stupid step-and-fetchit sidekicks, there was something deeply troubling that I couldn’t pinpoint. The movie left me feeling spiritually unfulfilled for reasons I couldn’t explain.
The same thing happened with Episodes II and III, even after they aged Anakin Skywalker past the point of physically being a cloying child and marginalized Jar-Jar Binks.
Recently, while re-reading the now non-cannon Marvel series, I realized that the problem is the Jedi.
In my youth, I was told that the Jedi were the last bastion of order and good in the galaxy. They were built up into these mythic space samurai who we were told were the most awesome beings the galaxy has ever seen. In the original trilogy, a single, partially trained Jedi seemingly brings the Galactic Empire to its knees (note that I said seemingly). Then I was left to imagine what the entire Jedi order could have accomplished for fourteen years.
And after fourteen years of waiting to see them in action, the prequel trilogy Jedi order served as cannon fodder for shitty robots and then clone troopers – the same troopers Luke and the poorly funded, non-force-sensitive rebel soldiers easily defeated.
Meanwhile, by the second movie, we stop seeing any regular, volunteer soldiers from the republic. Jedi become the sole, human focus of the storyline and merchandising. Everyone doing the fighting is either a Jedi or a clone trooper. This solves the marketing problem of kinder, gentler parents of the new millennium finding actual soldiers killing each other and dying for their cause too violent because Jedi deaths are super heroic and noble, while clone and robot deaths are impersonal. However, this focus fails to make Jedi especially interesting because all they do is overthink the ramifications of their actions, then get cut down by an army of soulless droids or by an army of clones with gentic predisposition for hitting their heads as they come through the door.
Now look back at the original trilogy - specifically the end of Return of the Jedi. Wait a minute. Luke doesn’t kill the Emperor. Darth Vader kills the Emperor. Luke surrenders to the Empire to protect his friends because his force sensitivity makes him a liability, and then a geriatric Sith Lord kicks his ass. Sith Lord Darth Vader, mortally wounded, sees his Jedi son begging for help, steps in, and kills the Emperor because his Jedi son can’t quite do it. Let me reiterate that Darth Vader was mortally wounded and still managed to actually accomplish his goals.
So it turns out that the Jedi sucked at everything.
And, as an added bonus, because the Jedi suck, the whole saga turns out to be the story of Darth Vader’s balls.
No, really.
The entire scope of the story is expanded by the prequel trilogy, and it changes the whole meaning. The overall focus of the storyline shifts from being the story of Luke Skywalker saving the galaxy by becoming the last of a line of great holy warriors to the story of Darth Vader and, symbolically, Darth Vader’s virility. Darth Vader’s story is that the Jedi were a bunch of impotent, ineffectual stiffs who never actually accomplished anything because their beliefs ultimately castrated them. Even when Luke has made it all the way to Emperor’s throne room, Darth Vader is the one that actually throws the Emperor into the center of the giant, round space egg, thus bringing order to the galaxy and ending the Jedi/Sith tradition of indoctrinating children into their neutered mindfuck cult.
Happy Easter.
When The Phantom Menace came out in 1999, I went in with big expectations, and walked out of the theatre bewildered. Beyond the immediate issues of over-reliance on CGI special effects, cute kids and offensively stupid step-and-fetchit sidekicks, there was something deeply troubling that I couldn’t pinpoint. The movie left me feeling spiritually unfulfilled for reasons I couldn’t explain.
The same thing happened with Episodes II and III, even after they aged Anakin Skywalker past the point of physically being a cloying child and marginalized Jar-Jar Binks.
Recently, while re-reading the now non-cannon Marvel series, I realized that the problem is the Jedi.
In my youth, I was told that the Jedi were the last bastion of order and good in the galaxy. They were built up into these mythic space samurai who we were told were the most awesome beings the galaxy has ever seen. In the original trilogy, a single, partially trained Jedi seemingly brings the Galactic Empire to its knees (note that I said seemingly). Then I was left to imagine what the entire Jedi order could have accomplished for fourteen years.
And after fourteen years of waiting to see them in action, the prequel trilogy Jedi order served as cannon fodder for shitty robots and then clone troopers – the same troopers Luke and the poorly funded, non-force-sensitive rebel soldiers easily defeated.
Meanwhile, by the second movie, we stop seeing any regular, volunteer soldiers from the republic. Jedi become the sole, human focus of the storyline and merchandising. Everyone doing the fighting is either a Jedi or a clone trooper. This solves the marketing problem of kinder, gentler parents of the new millennium finding actual soldiers killing each other and dying for their cause too violent because Jedi deaths are super heroic and noble, while clone and robot deaths are impersonal. However, this focus fails to make Jedi especially interesting because all they do is overthink the ramifications of their actions, then get cut down by an army of soulless droids or by an army of clones with gentic predisposition for hitting their heads as they come through the door.
Now look back at the original trilogy - specifically the end of Return of the Jedi. Wait a minute. Luke doesn’t kill the Emperor. Darth Vader kills the Emperor. Luke surrenders to the Empire to protect his friends because his force sensitivity makes him a liability, and then a geriatric Sith Lord kicks his ass. Sith Lord Darth Vader, mortally wounded, sees his Jedi son begging for help, steps in, and kills the Emperor because his Jedi son can’t quite do it. Let me reiterate that Darth Vader was mortally wounded and still managed to actually accomplish his goals.
So it turns out that the Jedi sucked at everything.
And, as an added bonus, because the Jedi suck, the whole saga turns out to be the story of Darth Vader’s balls.
No, really.
The entire scope of the story is expanded by the prequel trilogy, and it changes the whole meaning. The overall focus of the storyline shifts from being the story of Luke Skywalker saving the galaxy by becoming the last of a line of great holy warriors to the story of Darth Vader and, symbolically, Darth Vader’s virility. Darth Vader’s story is that the Jedi were a bunch of impotent, ineffectual stiffs who never actually accomplished anything because their beliefs ultimately castrated them. Even when Luke has made it all the way to Emperor’s throne room, Darth Vader is the one that actually throws the Emperor into the center of the giant, round space egg, thus bringing order to the galaxy and ending the Jedi/Sith tradition of indoctrinating children into their neutered mindfuck cult.
Happy Easter.
Saturday, April 23, 2011
Chapter 864: St. Francis of the Implausible Birth
A number of people have asked me when I will be doing a hate-filled treatment of the night my wife went into labor. Such situations are comedic gold mines, no?
No.
But I can give it the ol' college try.
There's a lot they don't tell you about the child birth in a standard public school education. For one thing, they don't mention that the whole experience is comparable to sitting in the front row of a Gallagher performance, and I'm not just referring to the splash zone. You are immediately struck by how shockingly unfunny every aspect of it is.
First of all, we did not go into the hospital expecting to become parents that night. I mean, we knew that she was pregnant, but she wasn't due for another month. The Hateful Wife had merely... done... something... with her... preciously precious precious parts that might have involved either urine or something... soupier.
See? That's not really comedy gold there.
When we arrived at the Catholic hospital, the midwife on call was the one I seriously prayed to multiple gods that we wouldn't get. Why? Because she had come up with a voice for my wife's uterus that sounded like Julia Sweeney on quaaludes. Seriously. 'It's Pat' on downers. Yep. That is a noise I want to associate with the inside parts of the hate womb. And fuck me if she wasn't wearing a kitten iron-on sweatshirt and didn't have one of those miner's flashlights strapped to her head when she walked in the room. The woman just did not inspire confidence.
So, we explained the situation to this woman and, well, apparently it was very interesting, but she wasn't very forthcoming with explanations. Instead, she ordered blood tests and turned on that mining flash light.
....
At this point, I will change the subject to avoid talking about what happened next. Earlier in the day, the Hateful Wife and I had been texting each other back and forth about dinner. I had been planning on making burritos and she wanted to know what she needed to pick up at the store. I sent her a detailed list of what we needed via facebutt. And then she called me to tell me that we had to go to the hospital because it was probably nothing, but....
Okay, let's check back in with what was happening at the Hospital.
..vagina.
The midwife hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then stood up, turned off the mining lamp, and had a word with the nurse outside.
A second nurse came in to have a go at Katie's veins because the first nurse couldn't tap into them. At this point, we were informed that Katie had wiggly veins.
By this time, we had been in the hospital for nearly two hours without anyone actually telling us what the fuck was going on. In fact, no one had even mentioned the possibility that Katie would be going into labor yet. All we knew was that something was up, and that is a fucking terrifying situation when you want your hateful spawn to grow up and reign over the Earth with swift, terrible smarminess.
So, when the midwife came back in, Katie asked her what was going on.
The midwife replied that there may have been some traces of amniotic fluid in the sample they had taken from Katie's pants, which meant that they would need to do more tests.
We then asked her what was happening in a broader, less immediate sense.
The midwife then told us that there was a possibility that Katie had leaked some amniotic fluid.
Finally Katie, frustrated with the evasiveness, bluntly asked if we were going home with a baby that night.
"Well, probably not this evening, but definitely some time over the weekend."
Moments later I was following an ambulance to another hospital, scared shitless and grieving the end of my potential adult adolescence, because the religious hospital felt like splitting hairs about the definition of premature.
Oh wait, you missed something crucial back when I was talking about burritos to protect your virgin eyes from graphic descriptions of the prodding and poking of my hateful wife's womanly wanton lotus. In the midst of the midweirdo's spelunking expedition, she casually mentioned that they actually had several projected due dates for Katie over a window of a month and a half, but had only told us about the later ones.
A month and a half?! What kind of bullshit quack fuckery is that?!
So once Katie asked if she was going into labor, Midweirdo told us that technically, the child would be 6 hours premature from the earliest projected due date. Because of this, there was an off chance that we may have to be transferred to Maine Medical Center, but that wasn't too likely. Then it became very likely. Then an old guy and a nervous fat kid were strapping Katie to a stretcher while I frantically started calling relatives, telling them to change course for MMC because the head of peditrics didn't want to take the risk of the possibility of giving birth to some kind of godless, premature squid baby based on the month and a half window of crappy projections.
At this point, as I was reading this aloud in the proofreading stage, Katie interjected that the projections were "total crap because they based it on her last menstrual period, which she had written it down and knew exactly when it was, which means that he was at exactly thirty six weeks."
So yeah, because our child was six fucking hours premature according to a woman who assigned voices to other women’s uteruses, we were shipped off to a different hospital - one with a neonatal care unit that wasn’t covered by our insurance.
Okay, wait. What? Yeah. The largest insurance provider in the state didn’t have a contract with the largest neonatal care unit in the state. Thanks for fighting socialism and Planned Parenthood, tea baggers. Its good Christian patriots like you that have ensured that insurance providers are free to NOT FUCKING COVER THE BABIES YOU DON’T WANT PEOPLE TO ABORT. Let the eagle soar.
But I digress.
I followed the ambulance up Congress Street to Maine Med, but eventually had to break off my pursuit to find long-term parking. I probably could have followed the ambulance to the entrance, but I was convinced that there would be an endless stream of horseplay-induced groin injuries, sucking chest wounds and fork-to-eye accidents that night, and I didn’t want to be that asshole that didn’t have blood on their clothes taking up one of the choice “Oh god, there’s blood everywhere” spots.
I ran through the night, my arms flailing through the air like Kermit the Frog after he’s announced the guest on the Muppet Show down along the trail leading around the Hospital. I like to think that I plowed over dozens of injured patients like a comedic juggernaut, throwing a few people in body casts into the road, clothes-lining old ladies and doubling back just to uppercut a seven-year-old orphan who’d just had his appendix taken out, all the while screaming “MY WIFE IS HAVING A BABY” but that probably didn’t happen. In fact, I don’t recall seeing a single person until I got to the emergency room.
I burst through the doors, and looked helplessly at the empty waiting room. Every previous experience I have ever had with emergency medical care had involved a prolonged wait next to someone with a bad case of arterial spray and/or an unexploded firework lodged in one of their eye sockets, so I was absolutely baffled by the idea of my wife getting immediate medical treatment.
A security guard saw my puzzlement and asked if he could help me. I explained my situation to the guard, and he offered to escort me there through the secret, actually convenient service entrance that didn’t force you to navigate winding corridors of abject patient fuckery that have formed from years of constant expansion, provided I didn’t tell any of the other staff members.
Montalban (not his real name) the security guard and I quickly found Katie in one of the birthing stations. A nurse was checking her out. In the course of the ambulance ride, Katie’s lady parts had apparently gone from a smidge dilated to the Lincoln Tunnel. Of course, the smidge dilated part could just have been the Midweirdo misinterpreting Katie’s belly button. Her estimation skills had already proven wonky, after all.
Our friend Tia showed up shortly after I arrived with a sandwich for me. She had previously agreed to photograph the birth and help keep relatives out of the room.
The next hour and a half is a bit of a blur. There was screaming and blood work. There wasn’t time to administer drugs or an epidural. Katie repeatedly punched me and then apologized to the nurse for shouting fuck at the top of her lungs, only to be reassured that it was a completely appropriate thing to say, given the circumstances. I started sobbing about how much I wanted a burrito. The doctor walked in, slapped me and yelled "compose yourself, woman!", then took a look a quick look at my wife, gave us the thumbs-up and left. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. My hateful little man, Frankie, was out, cradled in my arms as Katie proclaimed “That was fucking ridiculous!”
And it was.
No.
But I can give it the ol' college try.
There's a lot they don't tell you about the child birth in a standard public school education. For one thing, they don't mention that the whole experience is comparable to sitting in the front row of a Gallagher performance, and I'm not just referring to the splash zone. You are immediately struck by how shockingly unfunny every aspect of it is.
First of all, we did not go into the hospital expecting to become parents that night. I mean, we knew that she was pregnant, but she wasn't due for another month. The Hateful Wife had merely... done... something... with her... preciously precious precious parts that might have involved either urine or something... soupier.
See? That's not really comedy gold there.
When we arrived at the Catholic hospital, the midwife on call was the one I seriously prayed to multiple gods that we wouldn't get. Why? Because she had come up with a voice for my wife's uterus that sounded like Julia Sweeney on quaaludes. Seriously. 'It's Pat' on downers. Yep. That is a noise I want to associate with the inside parts of the hate womb. And fuck me if she wasn't wearing a kitten iron-on sweatshirt and didn't have one of those miner's flashlights strapped to her head when she walked in the room. The woman just did not inspire confidence.
So, we explained the situation to this woman and, well, apparently it was very interesting, but she wasn't very forthcoming with explanations. Instead, she ordered blood tests and turned on that mining flash light.
....
At this point, I will change the subject to avoid talking about what happened next. Earlier in the day, the Hateful Wife and I had been texting each other back and forth about dinner. I had been planning on making burritos and she wanted to know what she needed to pick up at the store. I sent her a detailed list of what we needed via facebutt. And then she called me to tell me that we had to go to the hospital because it was probably nothing, but....
Okay, let's check back in with what was happening at the Hospital.
..vagina.
The midwife hemmed and hawed for a few minutes, then stood up, turned off the mining lamp, and had a word with the nurse outside.
A second nurse came in to have a go at Katie's veins because the first nurse couldn't tap into them. At this point, we were informed that Katie had wiggly veins.
By this time, we had been in the hospital for nearly two hours without anyone actually telling us what the fuck was going on. In fact, no one had even mentioned the possibility that Katie would be going into labor yet. All we knew was that something was up, and that is a fucking terrifying situation when you want your hateful spawn to grow up and reign over the Earth with swift, terrible smarminess.
So, when the midwife came back in, Katie asked her what was going on.
The midwife replied that there may have been some traces of amniotic fluid in the sample they had taken from Katie's pants, which meant that they would need to do more tests.
We then asked her what was happening in a broader, less immediate sense.
The midwife then told us that there was a possibility that Katie had leaked some amniotic fluid.
Finally Katie, frustrated with the evasiveness, bluntly asked if we were going home with a baby that night.
"Well, probably not this evening, but definitely some time over the weekend."
Moments later I was following an ambulance to another hospital, scared shitless and grieving the end of my potential adult adolescence, because the religious hospital felt like splitting hairs about the definition of premature.
Oh wait, you missed something crucial back when I was talking about burritos to protect your virgin eyes from graphic descriptions of the prodding and poking of my hateful wife's womanly wanton lotus. In the midst of the midweirdo's spelunking expedition, she casually mentioned that they actually had several projected due dates for Katie over a window of a month and a half, but had only told us about the later ones.
A month and a half?! What kind of bullshit quack fuckery is that?!
So once Katie asked if she was going into labor, Midweirdo told us that technically, the child would be 6 hours premature from the earliest projected due date. Because of this, there was an off chance that we may have to be transferred to Maine Medical Center, but that wasn't too likely. Then it became very likely. Then an old guy and a nervous fat kid were strapping Katie to a stretcher while I frantically started calling relatives, telling them to change course for MMC because the head of peditrics didn't want to take the risk of the possibility of giving birth to some kind of godless, premature squid baby based on the month and a half window of crappy projections.
At this point, as I was reading this aloud in the proofreading stage, Katie interjected that the projections were "total crap because they based it on her last menstrual period, which she had written it down and knew exactly when it was, which means that he was at exactly thirty six weeks."
So yeah, because our child was six fucking hours premature according to a woman who assigned voices to other women’s uteruses, we were shipped off to a different hospital - one with a neonatal care unit that wasn’t covered by our insurance.
Okay, wait. What? Yeah. The largest insurance provider in the state didn’t have a contract with the largest neonatal care unit in the state. Thanks for fighting socialism and Planned Parenthood, tea baggers. Its good Christian patriots like you that have ensured that insurance providers are free to NOT FUCKING COVER THE BABIES YOU DON’T WANT PEOPLE TO ABORT. Let the eagle soar.
But I digress.
I followed the ambulance up Congress Street to Maine Med, but eventually had to break off my pursuit to find long-term parking. I probably could have followed the ambulance to the entrance, but I was convinced that there would be an endless stream of horseplay-induced groin injuries, sucking chest wounds and fork-to-eye accidents that night, and I didn’t want to be that asshole that didn’t have blood on their clothes taking up one of the choice “Oh god, there’s blood everywhere” spots.
I ran through the night, my arms flailing through the air like Kermit the Frog after he’s announced the guest on the Muppet Show down along the trail leading around the Hospital. I like to think that I plowed over dozens of injured patients like a comedic juggernaut, throwing a few people in body casts into the road, clothes-lining old ladies and doubling back just to uppercut a seven-year-old orphan who’d just had his appendix taken out, all the while screaming “MY WIFE IS HAVING A BABY” but that probably didn’t happen. In fact, I don’t recall seeing a single person until I got to the emergency room.
I burst through the doors, and looked helplessly at the empty waiting room. Every previous experience I have ever had with emergency medical care had involved a prolonged wait next to someone with a bad case of arterial spray and/or an unexploded firework lodged in one of their eye sockets, so I was absolutely baffled by the idea of my wife getting immediate medical treatment.
A security guard saw my puzzlement and asked if he could help me. I explained my situation to the guard, and he offered to escort me there through the secret, actually convenient service entrance that didn’t force you to navigate winding corridors of abject patient fuckery that have formed from years of constant expansion, provided I didn’t tell any of the other staff members.
Montalban (not his real name) the security guard and I quickly found Katie in one of the birthing stations. A nurse was checking her out. In the course of the ambulance ride, Katie’s lady parts had apparently gone from a smidge dilated to the Lincoln Tunnel. Of course, the smidge dilated part could just have been the Midweirdo misinterpreting Katie’s belly button. Her estimation skills had already proven wonky, after all.
Our friend Tia showed up shortly after I arrived with a sandwich for me. She had previously agreed to photograph the birth and help keep relatives out of the room.
The next hour and a half is a bit of a blur. There was screaming and blood work. There wasn’t time to administer drugs or an epidural. Katie repeatedly punched me and then apologized to the nurse for shouting fuck at the top of her lungs, only to be reassured that it was a completely appropriate thing to say, given the circumstances. I started sobbing about how much I wanted a burrito. The doctor walked in, slapped me and yelled "compose yourself, woman!", then took a look a quick look at my wife, gave us the thumbs-up and left. And then, as suddenly as it had begun, it was over. My hateful little man, Frankie, was out, cradled in my arms as Katie proclaimed “That was fucking ridiculous!”
And it was.
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