The way a woman walks is very important. It tells you so much about her. My Wife has a great walk. It was one of the first things I noticed about her [that and her great set of boobies: they really are spectacular]. Hers is more of a strut. She walks with authority. She used to wear this leather jacket that made her look like a long blond haired female version of Serpico. She has a stride that just announces her presence with authority. There’s an attitude to it. She don’t give a fuck about anything or anybody. Here I am, deal with it. It’s really something to see.
There’s a girl at work that does not move her shoulders when she walks. It’s really quite odd. Her shoulders do not move at all. Her steps are close together and she almost bounces when she walks. She moves like a cocktail waitress from the 60s, as if she worked at the old Playboy Club [if you’re not aware of what this was, look it up. It was really something quite awesome and it’s too bad they no longer exist. I remember one time when I was young (11 or 12) I was in my Dad’s office snooping around and came across the golden key that proved you were a member and gave you access to the exclusive club. This made my Dad the Coolest Man Alive.].
Tonight is our final Lamaze class. I haven’t written about it before because it hasn’t been that interesting. It’s informative, but just not a hell of a lot of fun. There are close to a dozen couples in the class with us and since I can’t seem to keep focused for longer than ten seconds my mind tends to wander while we’re in class. I look around the room and I wonder what will be the fate of these families.
Chances are that not every delivery will go as smoothly as we would hope. What will some of the complications be? Will anyone have to face any great tragedies? What will the family drama consist of?
The odds are that one of these couples will have a child that is homosexual. It’s fun to try and guess who it might be.
We watched some movies and they really haven’t been that bad. Perhaps they’re saving the real doozies for tonight. When I was in school, we watched “The Miracle of Life” and afterward one thing was for sure: giving birth didn’t look like a miracle. Disgusting, yes, but not a miracle.
I’ve heard that the after birth is the worst part. It looks like bloody hamburger and smells like a whorehouse at low tide. My wife and family are a little nervous that I’m going to be a tense, nervous, neurotic mess in the delivery room and I gotta say it's a little annoying. Where's the confindence. I guess I’ve give reason in the past for this kind of judgment, but I think I’m pretty good under stress, especially when I’m supposed to be there to care for my wife.
God, I hope I don’t faint or freak out or do anything to cause a lifetime of embarrassment as the story is repeated ad nauseam.
I read this story: (and it’s one hundred percent true) A woman is giving birth and the husband is right there with her. The doctor’s need to give the woman a shot and they ask the husband to try and hold his wife down. The husband is holding the wife while watching the doctors. The doctors ready the needle with the drugs and as they are about to inject it into the wife the husband faints. As luck would have it, the husband falls back and cracks his head open on a metal fixture near the floor. The husband goes into intensive care and ends up dying a few days later. In a nice twist that can only happen in our litigious society, the wife is now suing the hospital for asking her husband to help restrain her.
He died in the delivery room because he fainted. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Our doctor’s are telling us my wife can go any day.
Let that sink in for a moment.
At any day, I will be a father. I will help shape the life of a human being. I will in effect be changing history, for I will help in determining the little man’s life, thereby influencing every action or reaction he will ever have, thus influencing how he will interact and deal with people, how he will raise his children, and it will be a casual chain that will continue forever.
It’s something that I take pretty seriously, more so than my stories of farts, shit, peeing in the shower, masturbation, and my general fat fuck ups would lead you constant readers to believe.
The anticipation is killing me. It’s like a hundred nights before Christmas rolled into one.
Any day now.
Can you believe a post with only one swear word? Fucking sweet!
There’s a girl at work that does not move her shoulders when she walks. It’s really quite odd. Her shoulders do not move at all. Her steps are close together and she almost bounces when she walks. She moves like a cocktail waitress from the 60s, as if she worked at the old Playboy Club [if you’re not aware of what this was, look it up. It was really something quite awesome and it’s too bad they no longer exist. I remember one time when I was young (11 or 12) I was in my Dad’s office snooping around and came across the golden key that proved you were a member and gave you access to the exclusive club. This made my Dad the Coolest Man Alive.].
Tonight is our final Lamaze class. I haven’t written about it before because it hasn’t been that interesting. It’s informative, but just not a hell of a lot of fun. There are close to a dozen couples in the class with us and since I can’t seem to keep focused for longer than ten seconds my mind tends to wander while we’re in class. I look around the room and I wonder what will be the fate of these families.
Chances are that not every delivery will go as smoothly as we would hope. What will some of the complications be? Will anyone have to face any great tragedies? What will the family drama consist of?
The odds are that one of these couples will have a child that is homosexual. It’s fun to try and guess who it might be.
We watched some movies and they really haven’t been that bad. Perhaps they’re saving the real doozies for tonight. When I was in school, we watched “The Miracle of Life” and afterward one thing was for sure: giving birth didn’t look like a miracle. Disgusting, yes, but not a miracle.
I’ve heard that the after birth is the worst part. It looks like bloody hamburger and smells like a whorehouse at low tide. My wife and family are a little nervous that I’m going to be a tense, nervous, neurotic mess in the delivery room and I gotta say it's a little annoying. Where's the confindence. I guess I’ve give reason in the past for this kind of judgment, but I think I’m pretty good under stress, especially when I’m supposed to be there to care for my wife.
God, I hope I don’t faint or freak out or do anything to cause a lifetime of embarrassment as the story is repeated ad nauseam.
I read this story: (and it’s one hundred percent true) A woman is giving birth and the husband is right there with her. The doctor’s need to give the woman a shot and they ask the husband to try and hold his wife down. The husband is holding the wife while watching the doctors. The doctors ready the needle with the drugs and as they are about to inject it into the wife the husband faints. As luck would have it, the husband falls back and cracks his head open on a metal fixture near the floor. The husband goes into intensive care and ends up dying a few days later. In a nice twist that can only happen in our litigious society, the wife is now suing the hospital for asking her husband to help restrain her.
He died in the delivery room because he fainted. You don’t know whether to laugh or cry.
Our doctor’s are telling us my wife can go any day.
Let that sink in for a moment.
At any day, I will be a father. I will help shape the life of a human being. I will in effect be changing history, for I will help in determining the little man’s life, thereby influencing every action or reaction he will ever have, thus influencing how he will interact and deal with people, how he will raise his children, and it will be a casual chain that will continue forever.
It’s something that I take pretty seriously, more so than my stories of farts, shit, peeing in the shower, masturbation, and my general fat fuck ups would lead you constant readers to believe.
The anticipation is killing me. It’s like a hundred nights before Christmas rolled into one.
Any day now.
Can you believe a post with only one swear word? Fucking sweet!
