The Babies are Coming for You

This is a warning going out to anyone who considers themselves cool, tough, or bad-ass:

Beware of babies. They will destroy you.

Babies are dangerous. They appear to be cute, affectionate, little balls of fat and love, then when you've opened yourself up to them, they strike, like little toothless vipers. If you review the basic truths about babies, you will see that they are in fact out to take over the world:

Parasites

Baby, preparing to rip me to shreds

The definition of a parasite, according to www.dictionary.com, is an organism that lives on or in another organism, known as the host, from the body of which it obtains nutriment. That sound familiar, mommies of the world? I know that many women love to play host, throwing dinner parties and Bat Mitzvahs, but this is a host of a different color. Not only do they embed themselves into a woman's stomach, leaching nutrients, but they also practice mind control. Take this, from fledgling blogger Julia Jones:

“During early pregnancy, I noticed something different about myself.  I felt dumber.  Yes.  Dumber.  Like, all of a sudden, my brain decided to take a hike and I couldn't remember jack squat anymore.  I would be carrying on a typical conversation with my husband, stop talking mid sentence, stare at him blankly, then say, "I'm sorry, what was I talking about?"

Spacecadetjones.blogspot.com

This is an obvious case of mental manipulation on the part of this fetal fury that has since extricated itself from my friend Julia, only to wreak havoc on the known world. But this is not where the terror ends. Once they are out, it only gets worse.

Snuggle Vomiting

For those of you not familiar with the snuggle vomit, it is when a little “person” gets all cute, nuzzles against your neck like a cuddly baby raccoon, then proceeds to blow breast-fed chunks down your collar.

How can such a small entity create such a large amount of projectile waste? It ruins your shirt, dribbles down your neck, encrusts your hair, and cakes into in your ear. Then, when you think the little Linda Blair prodigy cannot spit up any further, they dig deep within themselves to call forth even greater reverse digestion fury.

This tactic is an obvious plot to destroy nice clothing, break our steely resolve, and make us go deaf in one ear from the venomous puke that spews forth from all infant infidels.

Baby Bums

Trendsetter

I was in a restaurant yesterday, and I saw a baby dressed in a pair of sweatpants, a shirt that he'd obviously thrown up on, an oversized jean jacket, and a stocking cap. He looked as if he'd been sleeping on the streets of Boston, living off of cheap whiskey and guilt. If I'd come into that restaurant dressed in such a fashion, unable to walk, drooling all over myself and babbling like a deranged person, they'd have thrown me out like Sunday's garbage. But this little man gets the royal treatment. They are allowed to gallivant around, naked as jaybirds, flaunting their superior status and lowering our expectations of what is appropriate and decent. These babies' flagrant disregard for human dignity and decency is leading to a moral failure among all humans. People say,

“If a baby's doing it, why can't I? I think these sweatpants go well with my jean jacket.”

They don't. This is another example of how baby mind control is sabotaging this great nation. Soon we'll all be wandering around in pajamas and puke stained t-shirts. Those of us who haven't already.

Steal Our Good American Jobs

Did you know that 100% of hard working, red blooded, American jobs are being taken by babies? It's true. The person working next to you, was a baby, not long ago. They are very methodical, very sly, but they are all vying for our honest wages. Soon, all of us will be living in abject poverty while babies are raking in our millions.

Maybe you don't believe it. Perhaps you think,

“It'll never happen to me. I have a specific skill set that a baby could never learn. They don't even have efficient use of their opposable thumbs!”

Babies are fiercely intelligent. They learn at rates much higher than that of a regular human being. Within the first few years, they learn to walk, talk, and destroy entire houses with vomit, poop, and toys. After that, they are coming for your job.

Reproduction Mind Control

mind control laser locked on - set to stun

The most feared thing about babies is there ability to gain mind control of any woman between 18 and 40 and turn them into babbling baby wanting slaves. They dote. They coo. They speak in bizarre languages that only babies and other women can understand. Worst of all, they get these women to buy pregnancy magazines.

This would be horrific enough by itself, if not for the fact that, once they've been brainwashed by these adorable little munchkins of doom, they begin pressuring their male counterparts. They hint, they wish, they blatantly ask when they get to start “a family of their own”. If they are above 35, they reference a mysterious biological clock and its incessant time keeping accuracy.

Keep women away from babies. As the host, a women is useless to the mind powers of our fetal foes. Take my wife for instance - she loves babies so much that she actually agreed to watch and assist a baby's birth. The whole thing. And she doesn't even like the sight of blood.

If a woman you know has any of the above symptoms, it's too late for you. Suck it up and make the best of your inevitable baby making.

You may think it is too late to save the world from this barrage of bouncing babies. But with the proper protection, you can avoid this horrible fate and remain the tough, cool, man you claim to be.

Just don't be surprised if, one day, you wake up and realize that your leather jacket is in mothballs, your motorcycle is in pieces, and your wife is in labor with your third child. It's then that you'll realize that they've gotten to you too.

Consider yourself warned.

I'm watching you...

If you haven't figured out by now, this posting is completely satirical. Please do not assume that any of the above statement are in earnest, or any way heartfelt.

Thanks to Monica Overberg and Gabe Goodrick for allowing the use their son Kurtis, in the above images.

(The babies made me write this disclaimer. Save yourself...)

25 is the New Dead

I'm getting old.

Now before you laugh, roll your eyes, or otherwise scoff at this admission, read those words again. Do not associate any sort of subjective tone, judgment, or analysis to the phrase.

It's true, isn't it?

I've recently become aware of a curious phenomenon. For over 25 years now, I've been getting older. While I was busy running, jumping, and playing, I was getting older. Cruising in my hand-me-down jalopy, I was changing. During that four year edification stint at Monmouth College, time was silently wreaking havoc on me; and now, through quantitative analysis, I've come to the conclusion that I have in fact been aging this whole time.

In the Eye of the Beholder

If she's a couch potato, does that make her a "Russet" Hound?

The realization came a few nights ago. Annie had turned in for the night, Ellie had given up on me and curled into a little ball beside me as I toiled away, recording a new piece of music. After a few hours of editing, I had finished the work and played it back for review.

As I listened to the music play back, I closed my eyes and rested my head in my hands. I allowed my body to disconnect from the world as my mind honed in on the details of the music, scanning for errors and discrepancies. As the song finished, I awoke from my physical dormancy. I blinked away the spots of light, my eyes struggling to adjust to the computer screen.

As I stared, my eyes refused to hone in on the information before me. I blinked, telescoping my head closer to the screen, then back out again. Eventually my vision returned to a semblance of its former accuracy, but even the next morning, my eyes were ever so slightly out of focus. I own a pair of low prescription reading glasses and have been wearing them with much greater regularity since.

I wish this case of macular degeneration was the only evidence I had of my own impending mortality, but as I look back at the last few years, there is more data supporting this hypothesis.

Back to the Future

This quarter century carapace of mine has long since departed from the posh life. It's been drug through more than its fair share of auto accidents, camping trips, sleepless nights, and chronic illnesses. Until recently, I can honestly say that my body has bounced back from everything it's been dealt; but since I've graduated college, something has changed.

My back hurts. I'm going to admit right up front that after long hours building theater sets, working out, or heavy lifting, I can feel it in my back. During the month of October, I was in a musical where I had to do some fairly strenuous gyration in stiletto heels (don't ask) and, about halfway through the production's five week run, my back was on fire. It was not only physically painful, it was also hard on my ego as I limped around like a senior citizen at bingo night.

Good Night Sweetheart

The nail in the coffin of my youth and vitality is the fact that the age of all-nighters has come and gone. In college, I could remain alert and youthful into the wee hours of the morning, for work or for play. Anymore, my body bids the world adieu after 11pm, whether I agree or not. The term “Hitting a brick wall” has never been as apt a description as when I am trying to work on a project and I pass that demarcation zone. It doesn't matter what I'm doing, where I'm at, but I am ready to be horizontal and unconscious.

In college, I once spent almost 60 consecutive hours awake, lucid, and producing meaningful content that resulted in A's and B's in multiple courses. I remember social occasions ending with a few friends fervently discussing nothing in particular while the sun rose over our cigars and whatever beer remained in the cases at our feet. I remember sitting up all night at Boy Scout camp, watching over Honor Society candidates, with nothing but a crackling fire to keep me company as I communed with the trees around me.

Once, a few hours of sleep could fuel me for days. Now, I contemplate sleeping over my lunch break.

25 is the New Dead

I am not complaining. I am not interested in hearing any “Just wait til you're my age...” remarks, so save them for your grandkids.

Everyone expects to hear groans and complaints about aches, pains, indigestion, and incontinence from those who have reached the venerable middle ages. It's as if you are deemed an invalid if you mention a hangnail before reaching 40. But as I've transitioned into adulthood, I've seen a large number of people in similar situations, lamenting the sudden lost virility of their youth.

Am I saying that I need a walker? By no means. Ask my wife – I have been claiming that I'll live to see my 125^th birthday for a while now. I have every intention of reaching that destination, with all my wits about me, pants unsoiled.

What I am saying is that I've learned how I need to pace myself. I believe I can do anything I put my mind to, but I cannot do everything at once. When I worked at my grandfathers baler implement, there was a phrase we used for an old piece of machinery that had been poorly cared for:

“Rode hard and put away wet.”

The key to becoming a renaissance man may be to master one thing before moving on to the next. For the betterment of myself, as well as the longevity of my carcass.

Easier said than done.

Pee my Pants at Central Lee

“If peeing in your pants is cool, consider me Miles Davis.”

Everyone's peed their pants before right? I'm not talking about diaper clad pant wetting – that's understood. I'm referring to 'old enough to know better', urination in the Levi's, public embarrassment grade leakage. I've had my fair share of societal faux pas, some of which have included public urination, and one in particular has left an indelible mark on my psyche.

In first grade, I was in Mrs. Ekle's class. I remember a few distinct features of that year of my elementary career – Reading A year with Frog and Toad, Andy Peck and I playing with Transformers action figures at recess (that's the original Transformers – none of this Shia Labeouf business), Matt Hobbs contorting himself into yoga positions during our comprehension worksheets, and the beloved afternoon milk breaks.

The milk break was more than just a reprise from academia or a benefit of USDA subsidies to the dairy industry. It was an exercise in civility and control. We lined up, alphabetically, cruelly leaving me to the portion of the line that I'd command for the majority of my career in the Central Lee School system. It seems they were ardent supporters of alphabetic organization, at least in the 90's. This left me taking up the rear my whole stint in Central Lee academia.

On the day which stands out among every other in my first grade experiences, we lined up at the door and, upon reaching relative silence, began our single file trek to the lunch room, where we'd brandish our blue card stock lunch tickets for punching, proceed past the brushed steel coolers until we found the rectangle box of chocolate or white dairy that suited our fancy. Then we'd circle back into the hallway and sit against the wall while we consumes our beverages.

The wall was a free for all. No rules of seating based on last names. No mandates banning free speech, or any speech. It was one of our brief respites from the uber-order that is elementary school life. So we clamored to the mustard yellow wall that stood opposite the cafeteria and attempted to find an open space next to our friends. Fifteen minutes later, as we prepared to deposit our empty cartons in the appropriate waste receptacle, Mrs. Ekle marched before us, obviously furious. In tow was a girl whose full name I honestly cannot recall, but her first name was Mary. She was in tears.

In an egregiously furious tone, Mrs. Ekle brought down the wrath of a mother rhino onto the students before her. As we soon learned, Mary had been ostracized, turned away from the wall by every student she approached. All she wanted was to sit and drink her milk, maybe some small talk. But this had not been afforded her.

I can recall Mary's appearance – ashamedly all to well. Bear in mind the fact that I was not in any way fashionable, popular, or even couth in my elementary days. I do not recount the following memory from the ivory tower of any chic appearance of my own.

Mary was not always the most kempt. She generally had mysterious stains on her obviously second, third, or fourth hand clothing. The odors that exuded her being were not always identifiable, and rarely were they pleasant. Mix this with awkward social conduct and it's clear to see that her classmates, myself included, were not always the most welcoming. I am not at all condoning the behaviors of my first grade self. Kids are mean, and we were probably mean to that girl. I will say that, on this particular day, I was not party to the injustice that befell Mary. I don't know that I would have treated her any differently, but I did not malign her on that occasion.

Upon receiving the brimstone of Mrs. Ekle's disappointment, we all sheepishly stood, resumed our alphabetic chain gang, and shuffled back to the classroom in silence. Our judge, jury, and executioner stood before us and delivered our sentence.

“For the rest of the day, we are all going to work in silence. No one is to utter a word. Take this time to think about the way you treated Mary. Would you like to be left out that way?”

We had about an hour to ruminate on our misdeeds. We pulled out workbooks, drawing paper, and activity pads and commenced the restitution process. About a third of the way through our noiseless trial, the chocolate milk began to make its way through my system and into my underdeveloped bladder.

I raised my hand. Mrs. Ekle, from across the room, shook her head, a somber, silent

“no”.

I sat their for a few more moments, trying to focus on the workbook. Which image was not like the others? I couldn't tell. All I could focus on was the ever growing urge to let loose the torrent of urine that was building. I stood and began to approach the teachers desk. I was stopped in my tracks by the steely glare of a tempestuous tutor. She pointed at my desk, and I returned, growing ever more desperate. I began to dance in my chair. I crossed my legs. That just made it worse. I looked around to see if anyone else could see my panic. I squirmed, vainly attempting to coax the fluid back up into my digestive system. Finally, I could hold it back no longer. The dark stain began to eek through my Ninja Turtles Underoos and make itself evident on my pants. I shrunk into my seat. The other students at the table began to smell that something was amiss. It didn't take long for the entire class to draw the conclusion that I had peed my pants.

As titters and murmurs began to break out across the silent classroom, Mrs. Ekle stood up to reprimand the cacophonous children. As she strolled about the room, she too caught the acrimonious scent of urine on her palate. She found me doggedly close to the underside of my work table, and sent me to the nurses office to get cleaned up.

Leaping from my chair, I walked with such a hurried pace that it bordered running. With the chance of being stopped for excessive sprinting, I slowed down to a loping walk. I reached the nurses office, explained my accident, and was told to STAND where I was while the nurse found some replacement garments. She disappeared into the bathroom and returned with two items. Handing them to me, she callously said,

'These are the smallest ones I got. They'll have to do. Use the towels in the bathroom to pat yourself dry.”

As I locked the bathroom door, my eyes fell on the brown sandpaper that hung from a dispenser beside the sink. It wasn't inviting in the slightest, but compared to the clammy feeling I was currently experiencing, it was a step up. I disrobed from the navel down, cleaned up as best I could, and slid the oversized, dingy pair of white underoos onto my tiny frame. I then hoisted up a pair of stonewashed jeans that had to be made for a 5^th grade girl. Clutching the baggy waistband to my nipples, I poked my head out of the bathroom,

“What do you want me to do with my...old clothes?”

I was handed a paper grocery sack and with an ill fitting belt strapping the gigantic pants to my torso, I soon was on my way back to my first grade classroom, pee pants in tow. I rebuffed the piteous looks and sneers as best as possible, sighed a monumental sigh of relief upon hearing the final bell, and raced to the bus.

The walk home from the bus stop was one of both dejection and relief. The paper sack hung at my side like a bag of cement, the weight of my shameful urine pulling my arm down and causing my chin to rest on my chest. I dared not make eye contact with the cars that drove by – everyone surely knew what that bag signified. I reached our back door, collapsed into the house and tore away any reminders of that awful incident.

In retrospect, this catastrophic event of my elementary school tenure seems comedic. But somewhere in my soul, the events of that day still shame me. I doubt that anyone else remembers the day I peed my pants in Mrs. Ekle's first grade class, but if they do, I hope they don't hold it against me.

The trials we face as children shape who we are today. How we react to those trials shape how we view the rest of the world.

All names used in this essay are used for comedic purposes only. I mean no defamation and harbor no ill feelings to anyone for the events that occurred. I hope you enjoy my self deprecation as much as I enjoy sharing it!