That's a paddlin...

Boost Mobile - you took a seminal childhood memory - the glorious, groundbreaking, and influential Super Bowl Shuffle - and you turned it into a bleary-eyed zombie-eaten corpse of itself. It burns, IT BURNS! Between this, the GI Joe movie, and a recent glimpse of my 3rd grade school picture, my childhood has really taken a beating this year. It's a damn good thing I'm an adult and I don't have to deal with that sort of...

Home purchasing - oh, wait, that's right, I have to do THIS, instead. I'd take a thousand locker shoves from Geoff Terman before I'd go through this again.
Mortgage broker: So if you get me this statement, and a copy of the checks, we should be good to go.
Me: Great! Here you go.
MB: I'm sorry, I meant THIS statement, and a copy of the backs of the checks as well.
Me: OK! Here you go.
MB: Oh, did I forget to ask for a complete sexual history? I'll need that, as well. Oh, and a copy of the original statement, but notarized and handwritten.
Me: Here. Take this.
MB: Oooh, my mistake. It seems that now the underwriter needs the ORIGINAL statement that you faxed three weeks ago, but it needs to come from the fax machine of one Jerry Boseman, of Butte, Montana. Here's his number, if you'll just
Me: Who's the closer now, bitch?

Dan Brown - I wasted 5 hours to read your stupid book, Dan. And I want them back. If you're going to just write the same damn story over and over again, at least hide some of the redundancy. And your obsession with large, hulking evil men who are all devilishly handsome and inhumanly strong speaks volumes about your...interests. I'm not knocking it: all I'm saying is, you're super gay. Own it. And stop publishing.

Sarah Palin - you're a retarded hypocrite.

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Booyakasha.

Festus - you're the size of my thumb right now, but evidently that's enough to make Wife nauseous for six weeks. ENOUGH. If you're going to be this big a pain inside the womb-a, G-d help us when you claw your way out in August. And if you think it's unfair that I'm already complaining about you and you're not even born yet, well...good luck in the Fancy Pants Clan, my fine little whatever-you-are-that's-not-really-a-person-yet-but-has-a-heartbeat-and-toes.

The Olympics - you are not interesting unless someone is crashing. And while there have been some great spills, everything has to have a heartbreaking story. I've got my own crap to deal with, Canada and NBC. I don't need to hear about how the Nordic Combined team all bonded over their shared experience of being adopted and then sold to a cult but then rescued by loving grandparents from Sweden who only wanted their grandson to be great at something, since little Tommy, Roy and Deke can't even read. Wake me when Community's back on.

February - go away, now. This month I have:
- received a black eye from Child,
- broken my own glasses with a lamp,
- had sharp stabbing abdominal pain that mysteriously disappeared after a quick run to the ER,
- dealt with the mortgage nonsense you read about just 30 seconds ago,
- had to deal with 3 feet of snow, and the narrowed streets and the awful drivers and the new and varied potholes and the leaks and the worrying about the new house and whether it's flooded and will we know before we move? because the seller sure isn't going to be forthcoming with that information,
- and now the melting of the snow, which means watch out for enormous falling icicles that will impale you and your loved ones! Hooray! And,
- Black History Month. Not that I'm opposed to blacks getting their own month, but history is boring. We have a black president! Let's hear more about him! Although...

Barack Obama - you are being a real big pussy, Mr. President. Sack up, slap Harry Reid in his old white face, and have Glenn Beck waterboarded. You are the leader of the free world, one of the smartest men to ever sit in the Oval Office, and you let Congress handle health care? Maybe you ARE retarded. In the meantime, own your agenda, and tell the Republicans where to shove their teabags. I know there's room for them all on Sarah Palin's chin. And now that she's working at Fox, it's not like she's got anything better to do.

Weep for me. I SAID WEEP.

We parents are a shifty bunch. We make single people feel bad about their freedom, and all the sex they get to have, and we allegedly do not (I'm not implying anything, I'm just saying people I know keep having kids, so SOMETHING'S got to be goin' on, right?), and all the sleeping in they get to do. And even within our own tribe there are hierarchies and prejudices - working moms, non-working moms, fathers who are more and less involved, parents who can't wait to smoke up until their kid is asleep and end up hiding in a closet with their bong made out of a PBR can - cataloging these subgroups is way too much trouble.

But I'm here today to dispel a particularly insidious and effective myth. And that is the MYTH OF THE GUILTY DAYCARE DROPOFF.

The conventional wisdom goes something like this: Mom or Dad drops off Child at daycare or preschool, and Child proceeds to pitch a fantastic fit. Screaming, lunging precariously out of teachers' arms, full-on tantrum on the floor with punching and kicking and snot and tears. Mom or Dad, after bearing this outburst with a saint's patience, kiss their child goodbye and walk out the door, looking to one and all like they've made a tremendous sacrifice -

"Good for you, helping your child learn the value of independence, and time away from his/her parents! It's so tough, but you're a modern parent! You HAVE to work, otherwise you'd totally be with your child 24/7. You must be a VERY strong person. I am in awe, sir/ma'am!"

Balderdash.

That tantrum is a point of pride. Sure, we have to look all distressed and anxious as we walk away - gosh, I hope s/he's ok without me! However will s/he handle the day without his Mumsy-wumsy? But deep down, we're cheering. Because that conniption is Exhibit A of our child's love.

If you're walking out of preschool, and your little Emma Bailey Aiden McFeminism-Smith isn't turning beet red and passing out, you're obviously a crappy parent. Maybe if you were more fun, or had better, non-plastic toys constructed by union workers at carbon-footprint-free factories, and fed your child hormone-free organic fruits and vitamin-infused soymilks and -cheeses, s/he would actually be said to see you go. Instead, they're all excited to go and bite that Asian kid, then hurt animals in a blatantly proto-serial killer sort of way.

Here's a hint if you want that awe-inspiring tantrum when you drop off your kid - tell him you're never coming back, and that his Mommy doesn't love him.

Oh, the tears will flow like rivers! And everyone will know what a great parent you are. Jealous much?

In Steeler Country, no one can hear you belch

I thought I would totally be down with Cally. I thought I could groove on their laid back vibe, float happily on their self-righteous extreme liberalism, gorge myself on their free-range tofurkey.

How very wrong I was.

I can never live in California. Not even San Diego, allegedly possessing the most wonderful weather on the planet. False. There is no snow, there aren't even clouds. There is only sunshine and smiling, tan people. And do you know why everyone is smiling? Because it sure as hell ain't natural. We had to shop for food for Child while we were there, and the supermarket we entered had a larger vitamin department than its food department.

But now I'm ready for Child to be rejected from every top university. It's because we abuse him by neglecting to provide him with invaluable supplements and boosters and Power Gels. There are Achievement Supplements (15 drops a day adds 1.6 IQ points, on average), Attention Focusing Minerals, and Brilliance Boosters! Whether this will lead to an epidemic of teenagers trying to inject extract of exotic insects sometime in the future, only time will tell (now that's a fun sentence to read out loud. Go ahead, try it. I'll wait.).

So for fear of superhuman overachieving insect junkies, we're not moving to San Diego. Also because it allows certain relatives to subject their 5-year-olds to acupuncture. Now don't think I'm one of those old-school folk who think acupuncture is hoodoo. One of my good friends is an acupuncturist, and he's not even one of the weird ones. But maybe wait on the needles until your kid is old enough to read? Perhaps. Just a suggestion.

A quick word on La Jolla. There are certain cities and neighborhoods whose property values make no sense whatsoever. Case in point - Skokie, IL. It should cost about $1.25 for those ugly ass houses. What an eyesore (sorry, Arica's parents. But then, that's why you're moving, isn't it?). Or Brooklyn. Or any of the non-Manhattan boroughs, for that matter. Someone would have to pay me to live there. To be fair, I'd make the same demand to live in Manhattan, but at least I understand why people like it there. It's exciting, and fun, and you never know who's going to assault you, or in what new and interesting way. Also, someone should take an eraser to Florida, and just start over. It's no wonder most of the residents are elderly - they're the ones who can't see how hideous their neighborhoods are.

But La Jolla makes sense. It's the most beautiful, most expensive place I've ever been to, and it's completely understandable. At least until an earthquake shakes it all away. But until then, you've got mountains, and coastline, and weather, and really hot women.

As much as I love Brother S, and new Sister...S (what can I say? They both have names that start with S), I can't live in LA. My profit motive just isn't that strong. Not even with Jeff's Gourmet Glatt Kosher Sausage Factory. And not even considering how great a gay porn title that would be. Because seriously, you should stop reading this right now, fly to LA, fill your mouth with a hot beef injection of cased meat, and feel awkward about how much you enjoy it. Then go back for more. Then get on a plane and go home, because you can't afford to live there.

Wife and I also went to Rodeo Drive, for Wife's Pretty Woman montage. I think we went into one store, and that was because we were lost, and needed directions. It's a little bit ridiculous.

Child, in case you were wondering, was fantastic. He slept, he ate, he flirted with anyone who made eye contact. He's a complete baby whore. Strangers don't even need candy to entice him into their cars. All they need is to play peekaboo, and he's gone. "Parents? I have parents? Hey look, a sketchy guy in a baseball hat! dadadadadadadadadadadadada!"

Brother S's wedding was fantastic. Smorg, molten chocolate cake, good scotch, smoking band, crazy, crazy people. And also beautiful bride, and flowers, blah blah blah. The corniness was effectively countered by wildly inappropriate honeymoon suite care packages. I feel dirty just thinking about what was in that bag.

And now we're back in Pittsburgh, where evidently a local sports franchise is competing in a high level match of epic proportion. I will say this for Steeler's fans: they're not nearly as annoying as Patriots fans. But I will miss rooting against those cheating, model banging bastards. Wait a minute - who said I have to stop rooting against the Pats? Or any Boston team, for that matter?

G-d, it's great to be back on the East Coast. Excuse me while I go chisel my car out of the ice and pay $15 for an avocado.

That's right, I eat avocados. What, you wannafightaboutit?

Random thoughts while I prepare to give Child jetlag for his birthday

At this time last year, Wife was clutching her enormous belly and trying not to poop out a baby on our nice white couch. Our couch was located in our apartment in Boston, which we could no longer afford.

And now...Child is a year old tomorrow, Wife's belly is so taught you can bounce quarters off it, and I'm gainfully employed by one of the few non-profits not completely decimated by Bernie Madoff and his band of Shylocks - making Jewish stereotypes persist for another thousand years! - living in an apartment we can afford in Pittsburgh.

This is not a list of resolutions. Nor is this all cheesy about Child somehow surviving his first year with me as his father. If you want me to be honest with you, this is a post crafted out of guilt and obligation to cover my ass while I jet off to LA for a week to watch Brother S may a girl that's WAY out of his league. Don't you feel the love all over? Sorry, that's a rash. You should get that looked at.

A friend mocked me this week for not watching one of the 754 bowl games. It could be that I was instead watching the Devil Wears Prada (how come no one told me that's not the movie where Anne Hathaway gets naked?). Or it could be that college football is a poor excuse for a genre of sport. It's nowhere near as compelling as the NFL, the skill level is exponentially lower, and the BCS system is so bad that Obama won the election simply by saying he'd fix it. There might have been other reasons, but I don't remember what they were. Something about hope, or dope. Were we promised a bong in every home?

Anywhoo, college football blows unless it's overtime. They have the single greatest overtime system in sports. Better than hockey's shootout. Better than your extra innings. Better than your closest-croquet-mallet-to-the-testicles-wins croquet. Even better than cricket's Animal House-style ass-whacking Rochambeaux. It's exciting, each team gets a fair shot, and the score runs up absurdly into the 70-64 range. Plus there's no punting, and we all know punting is for pussies who play rugby.

Meanwhile, I'm reading Beckett and this guy Gary Lutz. If you've ever read either one, you will wonder why the hell I'm reading both at the same time. Well Watt is funny, no doubt about it. But it's also dense, and boring, and not a whole lot's happening right now. So sue me, I got antsy. So I picked up Lutz only to discover that he treats English like a salad. He tosses some verbs here and there, and thinks adjectives are just super over anything, without regard to context, or definition. So you'll get a sentence like

"I disturbed the pages of my newspaper, spoiling them, melancholizing them with sudden prosperities of eyesight, despecificating the stories until all that was still binding in them was a vague and ungiving sense of people motioning dimly toward me from within their own cumbersome towns."

What the fuck does that mean? It makes me feel stupid, and jealous, and exhilarated. Turns out, I enjoy things that make me feel like an idiot.

E.g., being a dad. Child went through a period of eating nothing but frozen pancakes and waffles. Couldn't get enough. And then we got a note home today - "Please do not send any more frozen pancakes or waffles. They make him scream." Well alrighty then. Of course, Child will eat just about anything if you distract him with fun toys like paper, or a magnet. So we tag team him for dinner - Wife shoves food into his mouth, and I try to do the weirdest, most bizarre things I can to keep Child's attention until he realizes he's full. He lets us know by vomiting.

On Sunday we get on a plane to fly across the country. Child has flown before, but never for this long. Can anyone tell me how much Benadryl - aka baby heroin - will it take for us to make it to LA with our sanity intact? One bottle? Three? In the meantime I'll try to remember funny things about the trip, and maybe when I return I'll regale you with tales of the Left Coast, and all their vegan hilarity.

It ain't just for babies anymore

I have to teach Child a lot. He didn't come into this world with the ability to swallow, for example. And forget about proper jump shot form. There are literally thousands of different tasks and abilities he'll have to master before he can take me on as King of the Castle, and he better get on it quick because who knows how long it will be before he's got competition.

Note: this is not a secret hint to my 20-odd loyal readers that Wife is with child. It just so happens that the Fancy Pants patented impregnating mechanism can only be held off for so long before it breaks through the gynecological defenses and captures the childbearing flag. (Further note: that last bit was way weird, even for me. But you know what? I'm leaving it in. Too bad.).

One thing I thought Child would have had down pat in the womb is napping. He had all that time floating around doing nothing - what else was he doing? Sure, all you holy folks will talk about him learning Torah with an angel, but let's face it - my kid would be sleeping through even that class.

But no, we had to teach him that he has to sleep every couple of hours, or his brain melts and his eyes fill with salty needles. Which is a shame, because napping is one of the few pleasures Americans deny themselves in pursuit of the, well, the American Way. Mexicans have their siestas, Israelis have their sha'at menucha, Italians have their June, July, August and September (ha ha! Italians. So lazy. I love stereotypes.). But Americans get...what, power lunches? Brunch? Other things that end in -unch?

Not for me, these non-idle pursuits. For a baby napping may be a vital time to recharge and grow and crap out the neck of your t-shirt, but for adults napping is a glorious luxury, a kind of blissful oasis in the middle of the day.

Ask around, and you'll hear some stories about the Fancy Pants and napping. That I once ditched Hebrew class to take a nap in the closet - that carpet was new, and quite cozy. That I slept through all of my econ requirements in college, and actually most of my major classes. But it was nuts-and-bolts finance, so you can't blame a guy, can you? Then there was the time I slept so often in one class that the teacher threw an eraser at my head. That incident, though, I consider an honor, because back in the day he was a world-class army sniper for the IDF, and he hit me right in the forehead. A fantastic shot. Must have been fifteen feet, easy. My point is that when I talk about naps, I'm kind of an expert.

What's my point, exactly? My point is that I want to bring back the nap. I want you people to tell others, and they'll pass it on further, and soon we'll have a whole Ponzi scheme built on the Andy Capp lifestyle.

Sleeping during the day, it's like you're stealing it. It feels naughty. You mess up the sheets which are still cool from not being used since the morning, the sun shines through the blinds - but not too bright, because you're not there to read. No need to put your clothes away, although I know some people are all about napping in their suits. Not me. Clothes go in a rumpled pile next to the bed, and I just crash for two, three, five hours until Wife wonders whether I'm in fact dead. Magnificence. It's a tiny slice of selfish indolence onto which I will cling until multiple Children decide it's time to play How Many Legos Fit in Daddy's Nose?

So that gives me like, I don't know, years.

Today is a glorious, glorious day

The first round of the Tournament begins this afternoon. This is how you know it's the most fantastic sporting event, by the way; it's the only one known as "THE Tournament." Can the World Series make that claim? Well, baseball can't say much, what with all those steroid needles poking out of its gigantic head, and it doesn't really get out much, what with the hip replacement (because it's old, get it? And really boring). The Super Bowl? It's only one game, and it's never as fun as ripping on the $846 million spent on commercials. 

So really this is the best sporting event of the year, and regularly renews my love of basketball and sports betting. Rocco and Luigi love it because they get to come to my house and threaten my family if I don't pay up, and I'm always polite enough to offer them some alone time with Wife in exchange for my fingers. 

Recently Brother S has taken it upon himself to run the family brackets, which we all appreciate, and takes a load off my mind because now I can concentrate on getting the whole brood hooked on Amway (it saves money, and we all make money! There's no reason whatsoever not to get involved! What's a pyramid scheme? Who's Ponzi?). And it means we can talk about George Mason and Kansas' perennially disappointing run at family events, and not get yelled at.

Finally, it's Child's first tournament, and he has his own bracket. And hopefully, like his dad, he'll think enough of the event to lie to his bosses, and tell them there's this new Jewish holiday that happens in the spring, and celebrates amateur athletics, beer, and brings the family closer together through the playing of 65 competitions. And I'm sure, brilliant Child that he is (this morning he discovered a Higgs boson  particle in his diaper), he'll be able to come up with some clever Hebrew name to seal the deal, and get the day off.

Nay, I shall not be pacified!

Not even a month old, and already the oppression has begun. I need to find my voice, my lungs need exercise. How do you respond to my needs? With some sort of false nipple that produces nothing but my own spit. Do you think I'm an idiot? That I don't know the taste of my own drool? Admittedly, it tastes a lot like milk, but it's watered down, like, a lot. 

Here you come again with your implement of silence. The darkness compels me to fill it with prolix verbiage, how dare you stuff that rubber nonsense into my mouth, stifling my soliloquy? Shushing me like some peanut gallery member. I have important things to say! If you'd listen, instead of staring vacantly at me, maybe you'd find I can teach you to walk with purpose, to act with vigor and ambition. Instead you trip on my swing, and befoul the air with your swearing. Is it so hard to turn on the light?

Good G-d, man, turn off the damned light! I am blinded by your insensitivity! Ow! OOOWWWW!

Only recently I have been able to discern your eyes, the details of your hideous expressions. And somehow you are dumbfounded when I scream at the sight of your bared fangs! I spend my entire life ravenous or exhausted, you don't think I recognize desperate hunger in another face? Idiot.

Again I have to look at your befuddled features. I have lived for an eternity, have I not earned the right to sing out simply for the joy of performing? Stop shaking me, I am not flatulent. Stop shoving that into my mouth, I am not hungry. 

No! Get that damned plastic away - mmmmphhh! MMMPPHHHHH! Bleeehhhhh. There. Now you're covered in vomit. Happy now? Try to pacify that.

Some thoughts while sitting in the hospital watching Child sleep

Of all the unnerving aspects of the birthing process - and there are so, so many - the one that tops the list, and was most unexpected, was the sheer volume of knowledge I got about my mother-in-law's pregnancys and subsequent biological quirks. For instance, did you know that, 30 years ago, they shaved the hair around the birthing area? I put it delicately because you're not old enough to understand, but ask your older brother, he'll be more than happy to explain it with charts and videos. Aren't you glad you know this?

Science lied to me once again. And all you people who mocked me for disbelieving the whole baby-hoohaa connection can suck a lemon. It turns out there is a different method for removing children from inside mothers - through the gut. What, is the real story not gruesome enough to release to the general public? Got to scare everyone with tall tales of pooping and baby-sized babies squeezing through hoo-haa-sized hoo-haas? I'll never believe anything science has to say, ever again. Which is why Child had his first pastrami sandwich tonight - because milk goes on cereal.

Also, hospital food isn't terrible. What was it, People Who Make Up Old Sayings, you didn't have time to try the vegetable soup? I wish everyone would stop lying to me.

I never knew that I would see literally dozens of men and women come into my room, brazenly whip out Wife's boob, and start massaging it, and I wouldn't punch any of them. She's like an exhibit in a museum, she is.

Hospital wifi is a revelation. How better to mess with your friend's heads than by e-mailing them while Wife recovers from delivery? The key, though, guys, is to wait for your wife to fall asleep. If she's awake, it will not end well for you.

Why aren't arms good enough anymore?

This is my last week before an impossibly loud midget who doesn't speak English will explode through the bottom of Wife and into my existence, preventing me from sleeping past 7 am for the next eighteen years. And even then, I'll be used to getting up so damn early - hell, I'll probably have a regular squash game with Conroy and Fitzpatrick down at the club at 6:30, Monday Wednesday and Thursday. Which is worse than you think, because Conroy cheats, and Fitzpatrick won't shut up about his lawn. So hoooray for that. 

Anyhoo, I've learned many things these past few months. The first thing I learned is that there is no stork - that story is complete crap. Or maybe I'm the stork...I'm not sure anymore. 

The most recent thing I've been taught is that there are dozens, nay, several billion different methods and apparati for carrying a baby. I thought the Swedes, with their Baby Bjorn (it's BJorn, dammit, not BYorn. ENGLISH, people!) were the pacesetters in this industry, but it turns out they're not so great, those gigantic, blond bastards. Aside for the standard B-Giorn there are pouches, and slings, and wheelbarrows that can be wrapped around you, and chairs that can be clamped, via titanium bolts, into your spine. Evidently one is supposed to have a variety to offer your child, because certainly a pygmy who can't see past its nose can determine that a sling is better for its itty bitty spine. And in its place I'm supposed to make a decision about this? I can't even decide if Fetus is a boy or girl. Sure, science tells me that the decision's already made, but it also says that it's natural for babies to pass through vaginas. Does that sound like the sort of thing right-thinking people accept? No, that sounds like some crazy witch-doctor shit. 

So we're copping out, Wife and I. We're getting the pu-pu platter (haha! Chinese food is funny!), and going with the Swedes, and the hippies, and the Japanese. Because nothing is too good for Fetus, except college.

Notwithstanding, Michael Cera is the nuts

Twee, as a musical genre, also as a word, really, is pretty much indefensible. It's precious, tinny, poorly-produced saccharine tripe that will rot your teeth in mere seconds. And yet, here I sit, a few days after Wife and I saw Juno, feverishly downloading Kimya Dawson and the Moldy Peaches. I don't have to steal anything by Tilly and the Wall - so cutesy their percussion comes from a tap dancer - because my iPod is already stocked with them. The sight of Michael Cera and Ellen Page harmonizing to "Anyone Else But You" provoked Wife's gag reflex - although 38 weeks of pregnancy didn't help - and compelled me to dream of simpler times, when none of the girls over whom I obsessed knew anything about good music, let alone how to play an instrument, and how much cooler it would have been if they did.

Cheesy? Um, a little. Embarrassing? Thoroughly. So why am I posting this information here of all places, where you can all read and mock me?

Because it's not my fault. It's the Fetus. All of a sudden sentimentality is acceptable to me? What's that about? I'm supposed to root for couples to get together at the end of movies, instead of one of them turning out to be a zombie? Somehow I got roped into watching Love Actually, and some guy in the movie proclaims his love for his best friend's wife, and everyone watching with me - Wife, Brother A, and the Minyan Makers - seemed to think this was sufficient. And I argued - ARGUED, vehemently - that he should have pursued her further, that he was pussing out.

Who gives a gigantic Indian food crap? It's cheesy nonsense! I should have been rooting for more boobs, or for someone to be revealed as an alien, or maybe a brainwashed assassin. But no, I'm getting upset because I didn't get closure. And this is Fetus' fault.

And don't think this will be the first thing I'll blame on the little sucker. If you see me months from now, and I'm critiquing, expertly, an inferior stroller or swaddling blanket (and admitting I know what swaddling blankets are for), it won't be my fault. Fetus - soon to be renamed Baby - has already sucked the cool from my brain. It's disappeared into the gaping maw of Wife's ever-distending belly button.

For those of you who cluck your tongues, and remember certain events that might suggest the Fancy Pants were always and forever somewhat substantially less than cool, let me remind you that I know where all the bodies are buried. I know who Amanda was, and what she did By Night. I remember clearly Mrs. S' unnatural and startling fixation on a certain large, uncouth, spaghetti-making golfer. So keep your snickers to yourself, if you know what's good for you.

Similac is Hittite for Satan, don't you know

I hope you all enjoyed the video "Gigantic Boobs and Your Baby." My name is Jody Nipple, and I am here on behalf of your areolae. There is nothing better for your boobs than the heavenly process of breastfeeding. Anyone who tells you otherwise is a liar, and a killer of Christ. I know some of you in this room are thinking about limiting breastfeeding to the first couple of months of your child's life, and then switching to formula. If that's your plan, that's fine, but I can save you some money, and a whole lot of hassle.

There's a Planned Parenthood branch around the corner. Go in, ask for the Similac Special. They'll take care of that pesky fetus right away, and you can go back to running over the elderly in no time.

For the rest of you, I'm here to answer your questions about the glories of breastfeeding. If you're not too weak-willed, you can follow my plan for feeding your child in the only natural god-given manner right up until they have to take their SATs - after all, the AAP doesn't see any sort of dropoff on the benefits of breastfeeding your child over an extended period of time. And since you'll all be staying home with your baby, as I did, you won't have to waste money on those vile pumps, or even clothes for your child. After all, skin to skin is the most effective cure for eczema, colic, diaper rash, and the croup.

Wait, some of you are going back to work? Get the fuck out of here, right now. Does it look like I'm joking? I don't cater to abusive parents, who think that leaving the house is hunky-dory. I didn't leave my apartment from 1984-1996, until I stopped breastfeeding my oldest, and even then they had to pry her from my maternal deathgrip. I'll be showing you how to properly clinch your fingers in the second hour.

Where are you all going? You can't ALL be going back to work. What does "cost of living" mean?

Fine. I suppose I can modify my class to accommodate your dangerous lifestyles. I don't know why I'm bothering, your babies will all be dead in three months, anyway. If you want to pump, make sure your child always gets the Mommy's Milk Breast Replica, a harness for your partner to wear when you're out snorting blow and flashing your business at young men. That way at least one of you will be a mother to your child.

I was a wet nurse, a dry nurse, a delivery room nurse, a doula, a substitute lactater, a nurse practitioner, and head of the nursing glee club at Mass General for 76 years. You think you know more than me, with your books and terrified expressions? You want your kids to leave you? To go away for school and not ever call you? What are "separation issues?"

If you have any questions, just yell them out. Unless they're about formula: those questions will be answered with my trusty "Mother's Helper" kneecapping bat. So, let's begin, shall we?

I am screwed.

Bay State’s going slap-happy

Well, what the hell am I supposed to do now? Fetus is set to burst out of Wife's unsuspecting, innocent uterus like a pumpkin through a buttonhole, and if the Beacon Hill Commies have their way, Fetus will have us all under its control within minutes.

And now I have to return all the tools recommended by the Boston Educational Association for Training and Driving Offspring With Necessary Stimuli. There's no way I'll get a full refund on my taser, and I have no idea which cop I stole that nightstick from. I guess Wife will have to return that EST machine to the hospital.

What? my brass knuckles too? Great. Now we're defenseless. I may as well toss out my baseball bat, while we're at it. What do you mean, that's not what it's for?

Liberal bastards.

Now What am I Going to Do?

According to "scientists," and "experts at the LA Times," I can't use the brilliance of zombie Albert Einstein to raise my kids. Unless someone has access to the brain of Isaac Newton, or maybe Shakespeare's ghost, I'm screwed. And don't bring me the skeleton of Galileo - I have no desire to pass on his authority issues to my kids. If they're going to be geniuses - and who are you to suggest otherwise? - they're going to do it while cleaning their rooms, doing the dishes, and believing the sun orbits the earth, because I said so.

Mmmmmm - Placenta

I’ve been known to support some odd things.

I was all for new Coke (I was young! It was new! I couldn’t read script!); I thought expansion in baseball was great because it further diluted an already crappy sport; and new strung out miserable Britney is ever so much more palatable – and less likely to provoke prosecution – than jailbait sexy Britney.

And while I may grant my imprimatur to cannibalism for the sake of obtaining the strength of one’s slain enemies, eating placenta is simply too far for me to go.

Maybe I’m late on this bandwagon, and lord knows I’ll have to face this choice when Wife gives birth to Child in early ‘08, but I’m confident in stating now, publicly, that while we may offer food and drink to local and out-of-town guests, we will not be serving placenta, Wife’s or anyone else’s.

But hey, if it’s in USA Today, then obviously I stand against the common man once again. Damn you, common man! Enjoy your human egg yolk.