My Kid Will Break Shit

We’re now one day past Mrs. Drew’s due date. That’s right: it’s sudden death.

And so, we wait for the Kid to make landfall. Let me tell you something: there is nothing more tedious than waiting for your child to decide to leave the womb. It’s like waiting for Christmas without knowing what day Christmas falls on, which I imagine is what happens to poor people, because they’re too poor to afford calendars, which must blow. I sit at home, staring at Mrs. Drew’s stomach like it’s a burrito I have in the microwave. This makes Mrs. Drew both creeped out and annoyed. But what else am I supposed to do? The second Mrs. Drew doubles over in pain from that first really intense contraction, I’m doing the fist pump.

There is one thing I’ve managed to do during all the down time, and that is to say goodbye to all my stuff. Over the years, I’ve accumulated a number of things I like owning: my TV, my car, my mp3 player, and various framed pictures of myself looking really good in assorted poses. My child will break all of these things. It’s a lock.

I was a kid once. I broke every fucking thing my parents owned: stereos, furniture, vases, china, assorted car parts, my brother’s big toe, etc. Anything I found, I broke. I once backed my mom’s car into a police cruiser. I once turned on the sprinklers at my cousin’s wedding, drenching the bride, groom, and minister in the process, and also electrocuting the videographer (he lived). I broke any Christmas present I received within two days of opening it. I broke my brother’s Christmas gifts, often because I was throwing them at my sister. I ate kickboards.

My grandma often said I had “ten busy little fingers,” I assume as a for substitute for saying, “Quit breaking shit, you little fucking brat.” Now, much like my projectile vomit, everything’s about to boomerang right back at me. I’m ready for it. The kid will break everything. And that’s okay. Unless he breaks our new iMac. I’ll throw the kid in a landfill if he does that.

Stupid Parenting FAQ, Part 1

As we get closer to Mrs. Drew’s due date (tomorrow), here’s a very small sampling of the breathtakingly inane questions I get asked on a repeated basis by complete strangers (usually female) who happens to notice my wife’s condition, along with the answers I’m so dire to provide:

Q: Are you ready? No, really, are you ready?
A: What the fuck do you think? Five years ago, I was smearing boogers on the walls of my apartment because I was too lazy to buy Kleenex. Who’s ready to be a parent if they haven’t been a parent before? Now fuck off.

Q: Are you excited?
A: No. In fact, I’m hoping we can still get that abortion I wanted. Then I can pawn the car seat for some meth. Now fuck off.

Q: Are you scared?
A: No. Only pussies are scared of babies. Are you scared of babies? Then you’re a loser. Now fuck off.

Q: Why don’t you want to know if it’s a boy or a girl? I couldn’t do that.
A: That’s because you’re weak, useless, and pathetic. I’m not a control freak, so I don’t have to know every goddamn thing in advance like the rest of our insane society. Now fuck off.

Q: Well, what sex do you think it’s gonna be? (precedes to give me their own prediction)
A: I’m not sure. Let me flip a coin so I can give you a completely arbitrary answer in hopes that you will then fuck off.

Q: When do you think the baby will arrive?
A: I don’t know. Let me check Mrs. Drew’s cervix for an accurate reading. Moron.

Q: What are you gonna name the baby?
A: Fuckoff. That’s what’s I’m gonna name it.

Q: Have you caught up on all your sleep?
A: No, and since there’s no physiological way to actually “catch up” on your sleep, why don’t you go scrape your knuckles and pour iodine on it? Now fuck off.

Q: Who’s your doctor?
A: Who fucking cares?

Q: Where are you having the baby?
A: Again, who fucking cares? In a trash can.

Q: Have you found a pediatrician?
A: Why the fuck do you care? Want to make me a to-do list?

Q: Will you have the baby christened?
A: Yes. In Miller High Life. Now fuck off.

Q: Can I visit you in the hospital?
A: If you’re that desperate and need to breathe in the baby fumes to bring on your own ovulation, then by all means, fuck off.

Q: Did you get everything you need?
A: No. Now go buy me something off the registry, you cheap sack of shit.

Q: (to Mrs. Drew) Are you getting an epidural? (I’m serious. People actually ask my wife if she’s getting anesthesia.)
A: (Mrs. Drew) Yes. (Me) Now fuck off.

I Will Be A Lame Parent

A couple months back, I asked my brother (who has a kid) if he was planning on seeing King Kong. “Oh, they’re remaking King Kong?” he asked.

He had no clue the movie was out. Which means a couple things:

-He had not watched any TV, because he would have seen a commercial for it.
-He had not read a magazine or a newspaper, because he would have seen an ad or seen an article about it.
-He didn’t surf the web, because he hadn’t seen a banner ad.
-His head must have been trapped in a steel box of some kind for an undetermined period.
-His life is basically over.

My point is this: You have to go to great lengths to avoid hearing about whatever cinematic gonorrhea Hollywood is throwing out any given week, and having a kid pretty much covers it. I myself haven’t seen a movie in the theater in seven months (the movie was Batman Begins, and Katie Holmes is about as good an actress as I am a ballerina). So, for the next twenty years, I’ll be forced to abandon the practice of watching good movies and TV in favor of kiddie dogshit like Dora the Explorer. I don’t know who Dora is, and I don’t know what she’s exploring, but I’m pretty sure I’ll hate her soul.

And kids wonder why their parents are so lame. I wondered it myself when I was a kid. Now I know. Any parent worth their salt has to be lame, because they’re so busy taking care of their kids. “Cool” parents, on the other hand, are too busy going to “King Kong” to bother teaching you how to read. Congratulations, this means you’re Paris Hilton.

So if my kid ever says to me, “Dad, you’re so lame,” I’ll turn to them and say, “That’s because I was too busy wiping your ass.” That’ll clam ‘em right up.

Babies Need a Lot of Crap

Before the kid makes landfall, here's just a short list of everything we had to buy:

-2 strollers
-Car seat (just an infant one. You also eventually need two other sizes as the kid grows. Fuckers.)
-Crib
-Crib sheets
-Waterproof crib pad (because all babies are bedwetters)
-Crib mattress
-Rocking chair
-Diapers
-Formula
-Breast pump (which I'd like to try on the dog sometime)
-Bibs
-Bottles
-Baby Swing
-High chair
-Clothes
-Baby wipes
-Baby grooming kit
-Baby thermometer (rectal, because real babies take it up the ass)
-Baby first aid kit
-Swaddling blankets
-Sippy cups (I knew a girl in high school who went around with one of these, sipping apple juice in it. I hate girls like this.)
-Nursing bras
-Bassinet
-Mobile
-Diaper bag
-Diaper Genie (which is a special diaper trash can that keeps your house from smelling like hot garbage)
-Baby Powder
-Bouncy seat
-Baby bath seat
-Baby toys
-Baby clothing
-Nursing pillow
-Pacifiers
-Baby announcements
-Baby Bjorn (which is a backpack you can carry the baby in. It's called a Baby Bjorn so that fathers can feel both Swedish and gay all at once)

That's just off the top of my head. Considering that I only retain about 5% of the information given to me on a daily basis, this list is barely the tip of the iceberg. I thought about totaling up the cost of all this shit, but frankly I'd rather have back surgery again.

My real question is: how much of this shit does one baby actually need? A car seat I understand. That's mandated by law. But the rest of it is fucking overkill. I'm a grown man. All I need is food, beer, a car, and cable television. I don't even really need clothes, given my jaw-dropping physique. When did little babies become so fucking needy? All they really should require are diapers and a titty. That's it.

The whole baby merchandise thing is a racket. Everything is expensive and nothing is useful. It's just like the wedding business. Or the country of Japan. I just don't get it.

Then again, I'm not a Dad yet. By the time the baby screams for the first time, I'll probably buy everything at Buy Buy Baby just to get the kid to shut up so I can finish watching the Sopranos.

Drew Gets Back Surgery 5 Days Before The Baby's Due

Two weeks ago, I was playing "touch" football when I ruptured a disc in my back, which then pressed against my sciatic nerve, which runs down my left leg. To give you an idea of the ensuing pain, try this fun exercise. Get yourself a power drill. A Craftsman, mind you, not one of those pussy Black & Decker things. Get the biggest drill bit you can find. Now put the drill on high speed and shove it right into your buttock. Be sure to wiggle it around! You don't want to miss out on all the fun!

I couldn't stand. I couldn't walk. I couldn't sit. Peeing was horrific. Shitting was even worse. Masturbating was pure anguish (but I did it anyway). I was far from the super-husband I normally am, with my flowing ringlets of flaxen gold hair and my impossibly large biceps. So off to the OR we go.

Surgery was a success. You don't really need to know the rest. People who talk about their illnesses or injuries are losers with nothing better to do. I, on the other hand, have tons going on. I write a blog, god dammit.

But you have to appreciate the irony of having your nine months pregnant wife standing at your bedside trying to get you to breathe away your soul-crushing pain. It's clear to me now that the breathing exercises we did in childbirth class are useless. They tell you to relax and go to your happy place (mine was a strip club with a dim sum bar) and that will help ease the pain. This does nothing. It's like to going to your happy place, only to have the bouncer kick you out and then club you to death. Trust me, breathing is overrated. Especially when the Devil is sticking a pitchfork up your ass.

The Art of Projectile Vomiting

I have a skill very few people on this earth possess. If you take into account volume and speed, I am perhaps the greatest projectile vomiter in world history. I mean, we’re talking a fire hose, here. You ever see people do that half-assed barf, that kind of dribbles down the chin and only advances slightly forward? That’s weak. I can nail the opposite wall with a gallon of Drew Soup. People who witness the aftermath are never really the same, frightened both for their welfare and my own. Even if I make it to the toilet and have good aim, the periphery still gets hit. It’s a talent.

When Mrs. Drew and I were first dating, I went out to watch the World Wrestling Federation at the Meadowlands with a friend one night. On the way, we split four 40’s of Olde English (which gets ye shitfaced). At the arena, I drank so much beer that it began to replace the fluid in my eyeballs. When I came back to Mrs. Drew’s place, she and some friends we watching “The Way We Were”. I came in, told everyone the movie was for gay Jewish men, said Barbara Streisand looked like a dead ferret, and passed out upstairs.

Mrs. Drew lived in a duplex at the time. To get to the bathroom, you had to go downstairs. At 4AM that night, my stomach geared up for a gold medal hammer throw. I barfed in the bed, on the staircase and walls heading down to the first floor, in the kitchen, and everywhere in the bathroom but the toilet. Mrs. Drew cleaned all of it, with it being understood that I was now obligated to marry her and worship the ground she walks on from here to eternity.

And I tell you that to tell you this. The baby is due one week from now. This talent is a lifetime trait of mine. My mom said that, as a baby, all I did was eat and barf. And as a kid, too. In 1989, my mom took us to Leeann Chin’s in the Minneapolis Galleria, where they have an all-you-can-eat buffet. I ate so much I ended up barfing over the mall balcony onto the Atrium floor below, in an attack I called “General Tso’s Last Stand”. We moved from Minnesota shortly thereafter.

Now, the baby is almost certain to have acquired my gift. And I’d just like to say to anyone who has had to encounter my churn in unexpected places – sinks, showers, basements, bar seats, urinals, trash cans, shoes, mittens, China cabinets, etc. – you are about to be karmically repaid in full.

I’m ready with the Pine Sol.

Drew’s Prior Experiences with Babies

I have so little experience with babies that a Justice Department inquiry should be made to determine if I’m really allowed to have one.

Up until a couple years ago, my only contact with babies was largely when I was trapped near one on an airplane. On the flight back from my bachelor party in Vegas, I was stuck in the very last row of the plane, near the shitter, with about 6 or 7 colicky babies on board. Whenever the moms tried to calm the babies down, they’d stand with them outside the can, right next to my seat. When the plane landed, we had to wait on the tarmac for another 45 minutes because no gate was free. If the Fasten Seat Belt sign hadn’t been turned on, I would’ve murdered everyone on board.

I’d also encounter babies at bus terminals and in department stores, almost always hoping they’d fall down a well (preferably an abandoned one). A couple years ago, we went to a dinner party (Christ I’m old) and this one girl brought her kid. Everyone played with the kid and made all these googoo faces at him. When the mom asked me if I’d like to play with the kid, I said sure. The kid handed me a toy of his. I said to the kid, “Go get it!” and tossed the toy over in the corner.

The mother looked at me like I had a third eye growing out of my forehead. “He’s not a dog,” she sneered. Fuck her. I made an effort. Her kid’s a pussy.

In the past year, I’ve hung out a little with my nephew, who’s now about one and a half. But I barely have any time to figure out how to play with the kid, because every time he’s in the room women swarm him like he’s the sweater rack at Anthropologie. How am I supposed to compete with that shit? It occurred to me that babies are the female equivalent of a football game. They crowd around one for three hours and ignore the shit out of you. Which is fine, but how can I learn to be a Dad when all women are clearly insane baby hogs? I’m considering using a sign-up sheet, similar to the treadmill at the gym. You get your 30 minutes, and then you have to fuck off. Sound idea.

Circumcision: Your Penis... to the Extreme!

If we have a boy (and karma almost guarantees that’ll never happen), Mrs. Drew and I have the option of whether or not to take the hood off of the Baby’s shish kebab. At first, it was a no-brainer for me. I’m cut, and I think it makes for one mighty handsome penis. Honestly, I think my penis could easily get modeling gigs if I tried hard enough. But it’s overworked enough as is.

So it figured that Drew Jr. would get the same treatment. But then I thought about it. And, really, if you actually process what goes on during circumcision, it’s pretty fucked up. Hey, here’s your new son! But wait! Let’s do a little facelift on his John Thomas before he’s even had something to drink! Odd, right? When you have a baby girl, you don’t lop off a nipple just for posterity (maybe in Africa, but not in America, which is the only country that matters). So why do we do it to little boys?

Well, I did some research. Actually, no. I didn’t do any research. Research is for grad school douchebags. But it did make me pause for a second. Rarely do I pause to think about anything, but there you go.

Until I came to my senses. Is it odd that we do a little penis sculpting on our infants? Oh yeah. But clearly, people wouldn’t do it if it didn’t have advantages. Supposedly, a cut Johnson can help stave off infection. And I’d rather sit on a table saw than have any infection in that area. But whatever. It’s all about the looks here. Nobody wants to walk into their gym shower with a penis that looks like one of those water balloon sleeves they sell at your local science museum. And what would most girls say to an uncut member? Probably this: “You mean it can look like this, too? Oh.” (grimaces in disgust)

They say uncircumcised men have more sensitivity. Let me tell you, the last thing I need is MORE sensitivity down there. I’d forget to eat at some point. Sex feels plenty good already. Make it any better and the world would stop spinning on its axis.

So the decision is final. If it’s a boy, we’re calling the butcher.

NOTE: I learned during the course of reading (yes, I read) that all babies are born with enlarged genitalia. So if you have a son of your own, don’t think you passed on some previously unknown “huge cock” family gene on to him. And if you have a daughter of your own, rest assured that you did not give birth to Nicole Bass.

Drew is the Car Seat Master

Apparently, child car seats are difficult to install. The hospital nurse said only about 1 in 10 people install them correctly prior to inspection.

Well, guess who can count himself among the superior Ten Fucking Percenters? Me, that’s who. The women at the inspection station gazed upon me with a mixture of shock and awe. At last, after all these years, they had encountered a real man.

Suck on that, all you other pussy dads out there who couldn’t get that shit right. My kid isn’t even born yet and I’m already twice the father you are. Think you can protect your family? You can’t even install a car seat right. You may as well feed your children to Mike Tyson.

I rule.

Drew is Supportive, Part I

I’m a stellar fucking husband. Here’s just one of the many examples why:

One of the exercises in childbirth class was to get your partner to breathe right (They say “partner” because some of the women there were single and had their mothers with them. Bet that’s a fun household to hang out in.). I sucked at this. No woman likes a man telling her what to do.

The men in the birthing videos were literally nose-to-nose with their wives during the delivery. I’m assuming because the camera was there. The husbands in the video probably just didn’t want to be seen sitting in the corner, reading “Highlights for Children” with their dick in their hand while the wife was doing all the hard work.

Watching the men stare at their wives on the tape, I had a flashback to my own wedding, when the judge made me stare at my wife as we said our vows. You ever stare at a woman for ten minutes straight? You end up looking like John Wayne Gacy. My wife spent most of the ceremony looking down, because she was afraid to cry. It was also an outdoor wedding, and I was in a tuxedo with the temperature at 85 degrees. As a result, in the wedding video, it looks like I’m about to eat my wife. Horrifying.

So Mrs. Drew and I have reached an agreement of sorts. Even though she will be on drugs, and even she will almost certainly not know what’s best for her at the time, I am to await her instructions during delivery and follow them to a tee. It’s a mortal lock that she’ll order me out of the room about an hour before the birth.

That’s right. I’m willing to abandon my wife’s side mid-delivery. That’s how supportive I am.

Drew Ponders Watching the Birth

In the old days, men weren’t even in the delivery room when a baby was born. They stood in the waiting room with family, taking in a snifter of brandy. Then, when the baby was born, the father would bust out the cigars, check the baby to make sure it was a boy (girls were usually thrown away), and then slap his wife on the ass for doing a good job.

I have no idea when they decided to change this method of doing things, because it sounds pretty good to me. But today men are not only expected to be in the delivery room, they are apparently also expected to be right up in the wife’s grill, telling her to calm down while she tries to push another human being out of her vaginal cavity.

I’m serious. Before we went to breastfeeding class, we had to attend birthing class, which is supposed to prepare you for labor. And if you thought watching women from 1986 breastfeed on tape was traumatizing, wait until you watch them on a hospital gurney, buck naked and making the same noises a bad porn star makes (the kind that let you know she isn’t actually enjoying herself, and is beginning to realize that banging Lexington Steele for $50 in residuals wasn’t a very good deal), as they pinch out a human loaf.

This is pretty revolting stuff. Why did they show it? Apparently, to frighten all the women in class and nauseate all the men. We had to watch three births in the class videos. Three! Seeing one was useless enough. But seeing three was like having to sit through the movie “Magnolia” again. And I fucking hated that movie.

After the videos, the nurse informed us that our hospital no longer uses stirrups in the delivery room. Instead, one nurse holds one of my wife’s legs. And I get to hold the other. This sounds idiotic to me. Stirrups were invented to hold legs up. They do their job quite well. I, on the other hand, have a really bad back. Is it really better for me to hold up my wife’s leg for hours on end? Fuck no, I say. I have back issues of Entertainment Weekly I need to catch up on.

And this is where we get to the real dilemma: Do I want to watch the actual birth of my kid? These birth videos were gross. Even Nicole Richie isn’t as much of a turnoff. Some books I read said men should be able to look at their wife’s anatomy two ways – as a vehicle for childbirth, and as a vehicle for sexual enjoyment. Fuck that. My brain is nowhere near sophisticated enough to do that. Maybe Dr. Cornel West can compartmentalize that shit, but I sure can’t.

One guy I asked had three words for me: “Don’t look down.” Sage advice, my friend. Sage advice.

Drew Goes to Breastfeeding Class

Saturday I had to go to breastfeeding class. Makes sense. My manboobs can hold their own against any other woman’s set of funbags. But will I be able to lactate? That’s the million-dollar question.

I was one of the few husbands at the class who was suckered into going with their wives. I was there ostensibly to support my wife. And by “to support,” of course, I mean, “to suffer along with her for no logical reason.”

Besides Mrs. Drew and I, no one at this class was remotely attractive. Take your standard airport terminal crowd, hit them one more time with the ol’ ugly stick, and you begin to get an idea of the student “body” here. Normally, I could care less if my classmates were ungodly hideous. But this was a breastfeeding class. The idea that all these women would simultaneously bust out a titty profoundly alarmed me. I told Mrs. Drew as much. She pretended not to hear me.

At the beginning of class, there was a basket of plastic babies at the back of the room. Every couple (or every woman who came alone because their husbands had some spine) was supposed to grab a baby to practice on. If you were pregnant with twins, they told you to grab two babies to practice feeding both at the same time. Alternately, you could slash your wrists. At least that’s what I’d do if I had to breastfeed two of these things.

All of the plastic babies in the basket were white, except for one black one. And, I shit you not, the black baby was the last doll taken. You’d think it had been in a dumpster. So, so wrong.

I was relieved to find out that no one had to bare their rack live in class. Imagine my horror when I realized we’d be watching women breastfeed from an instructional video. I already told you how unappealing the people in the class were. Now put them in stirrup pants and the same hairdo as that lady in Texas who drowned all her kids. That’s who I got to watch breastfeed. You literally get to watch the milk squirt out. Ever see the movie “8MM”, where Joaquin Phoenix tells Nicolas Cage, “You’re gonna see some things here that you can’t un-see.”? Now I know what he meant. It was like watching a homemade fetish video. Not fun.

But we learned a lot. Basically, breastfeeding isn’t very easy and makes constant demands on the mother, possibly cracking her nipples in the process. Further proof in my eyes that God is a complete bastard. Recommendations on how long you do it range from six months to a year. You can also breastfeed your kid for longer than that, if you want him or her to become a complete pussy. Won’t be happening in this household. NO PUSSIES.

-D

Weekend Notes

-I’m going to try and update the blog daily, but chances are my postings will be sporadic. I want each entry to read more like a column than entries from some dipshit’s journal.

-This weekend’s house Project is Installing the Baby Car Seat. Ever since we moved into a house, my weekend has consisted mainly of Projects (either painting shit, hanging shit, fixing shit, or moving shit), instead of my typical routine of watching football on the couch until my legs go numb. I have not adjusted well to the change. Painting, in particular, is a bitch. I usually start off any painting project with laser-like focus, painting every nook and cranny perfectly. Then ten minutes go by, my back starts to hurt, and I begin painting like epileptic on crystal meth. My advice? Never paint anything. It blows.

-I’m starting to compile a mental list of “Shit I Probably Won’t Be Able to Do For The Next 25 Years.” The list right now includes smoking weed, seeing a movie in a movie theater, and watching a football game in its entirety. I’m sure I’ll think of more when the baby makes landfall.

Naming the Kid

Naming the Kid

Frankly, I’m still glad people are allowed to freely name their children. Once Google takes over the world, it’ll almost certainly determine your child’s perfect name by algorithm and force it upon you, lest their supercomputer drain you of all your blood.

But people have taken it way too far now. Forget celebrities – they’re all completely fucking insane anyway. I’m talking about normal people giving their children completely ludicrous names. You know what the third most popular girl’s name was last year? Madison. Two decades from now, if I yell “Madison” out loud at Cheetah’s in Vegas (and the odds of that happening are quite good), every girl in the room will turn and stare at me. Why don’t you just name your daughter Slutty McEasywhore and be done with it?

People over-think these names, just like they do with anything regarding their kids. You want your kid to be special? Teach it to juggle cats. Naming them Madison, or Diamond, or Heaven is like giving them a free ticket to Hookertown. That’s why I wanted to name our daughter Bertha. Nobody wants to have sex with a girl named Bertha. As far as I’m concerned, that makes it ideal. I’d name her Bertha Snatchfungus if I could.

Finding a name also made me realize that I know the names of way too many porn stars. Jenna? Porn star name. Anita? Porn star name. Sylvia? European porn star name. Jasmine? Gang bang name. It was both frustrating and shameful all at once. But it did help narrow the list considerably.

Girl’s names weren’t even a big issue for Mrs. Drew and I. We found a few pretty, non-stripper names and picked from there. The boy’s names were a fucking disaster. You know what the fifth most popular boy’s name was last year? Ethan. What a pussy name (see the previous post for my #1 goal for raising a son). When I think Ethan, I think Ethan Hawke, and when I think Ethan Hawke, I think of my boot crushing a failed novelist’s throat. Ethan Hawke is the only man alive both annoying enough to bang Uma Thurman and stupid enough to dump her. I hope he falls into a tar pit.

You know why Ethan is the fifth most popular boy’s name out there? Because women love forcing prettyboy names on their husbands. My wife’s favorite boy name was Tristan. After I recovered from the subsequent hemorrhage, I calmly explained to her that Tristan was a pussy name. Like I said, I have no issue with having a gay son. But that doesn’t mean I have to name him Tristan, buy him Judy Garland albums, and then drop him off at the Manhole in Chelsea. If he’s gonna be gay, he’s gonna be gay organically. He doesn’t need my help.

So I pushed back, with reasonable options. That’s the key. Naming a kid is like ordering takeout. If you don’t like someone’s suggestion, you sure as shit better have a reasonable suggestion to counter. If you just say, “I don’t like it,” you’re begging for a hostile response.

And you gotta have a decent suggestion at the ready. And this is where women come in handy. If men were solely allowed to name their kids, they’d give them the badassmotherfuckerest name they could think of. Left to my devices, I’d probably name our son Thundercock. Split the difference with the lady and you end up in the right spot between a douchebag name and an asshole name.

I worried about potential nicknames at first. But, frankly, kids are creative. They can find a way to rhyme “Josh” with “Vagina” if they decide they hate you. So I ended up not worrying so much about that.

In the end, we found names that qualified my basic requirements:

FOR BOYS – No pussy names
FOR GIRLS – No stripper/hooker/pornstar names. And anything but Jennifer, because my wife hates it.

More tomorrow.

-D

Introduction - Drew's Goals for the Kid

This is Father Knows Shit. My name’s Drew, and three weeks from now, my wife is due to have our first child. Given my pedigree, it will almost certainly smell bad, shit often, masturbate at least 6 times a day, hump anything within eyeshot, and learn to drink itself blind by age 12.

Should be awesome.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m excited to be a parent. Lots of people become parents by accident. Not me. My wife and I made a mutual decision to begin the months of hardcore, bareback screwing necessary to ensure a pregnancy. Much to my chagrin, the plan worked too soon and she was pregnant within .5 seconds. That’s just how powerful my mighty little sperm are.

Since then, I’ve read through books and books on baby care, baby equipment, parenting styles, and mountains of other deadly bullshit from authors (usually women with an Oprah Complex, or born again Christian assholes) so self-serious about their parenthood, they probably plan on nailing their kid to a cross at age 33.

Frankly, I’m sick of reading this crap. People have been raising kids for 8 million years (or however long it’s been since we killed all the dinosaurs). How fucking complicated can it be? I’m writing this blog to find out. This won’t be a diary. You won’t read posts that say:

4:38 AM – Baby poops. YAY!

That shit is gay.

And frankly, most people (including me) don’t give a rat’s ass about other people’s children. Oh, your kid had a piano recital? Congrats. Maybe he’ll grow up to be the dipshit from Coldplay. No, what I plan to do is find the most entertaining aspects of raising a kid. We start with the planning stages.

GOALS
Mrs. Drew and I decided not to know if we’re having a boy or a girl (I hate spoilers). So I have laid out goals for myself as a dad. They are organized here by potential sex.

#1 BOY GOAL – Make sure he is not a fucking pussy.
I could care less if I have a gay son. Fine by me (the kid would at least lose his virginity well before the age I managed it). My family has a long history of having “the gay” anyways. But a pussy? Nobody wants their kid to end up being Fredo Corleone. I want a Michael Corleone-type. The kind that will kill you in your sleep. Or, barring that, a Sonny Corleone-type, who gets laid a lot and has a really sweet death. I swear to God, if my kid ends up opening up his own vegan teahouse or some bullshit like that, then I have fucking failed.

#2 BOY GOAL – Make sure he never wears a ‘do rag
If my kid ever goes out in public wearing the official headwear of Kevin Federline, then I have fucking failed.

That’s it for the boy goals. Lotta leeway there. Now for my potential daughter.

#1 GIRL GOAL – Make sure she’s never naked in public
Basically, an expansion of Chris Rock’s “Keep Her Off The Pole” Rule. If my daughter ever bares herself to anyone with a camera , then I have fucking failed. And I mean failed badly. Joe Francis, stay the fuck away from my kid.

#2 GIRL GOAL – Make sure she never marries an actor/musician/performance artist
If she ends up with some wallet leech like this asshole:
http://www.thesuperficial.com/archives/2005/10/31/mischa_barton_likes_em_classy.html
Then I have fucking failed. Be sure to tell me to my face, too.

#3 GIRL GOAL – Make sure she is not a slut
I wish I were a teenager now. Teenage girls today dress and act like complete slutbags. When I was in high school, they wore overalls and listened to Phish. God is an asshole. If my daughter ends up dressing and acting like any member of the Hilton family, then I have fucking failed.

#1 HERMAPHRODITE GOAL – Lose the penis, place a call in to Jamie Lee Curtis

That’s all for now. Next Entry – Naming the Thing.