While the boy’s birthing was a marathon fight like Rocky Balboa versus Ivan Drago (minus the sweet “No Easy Way Out” montage), the Broz girl child fired her way out of the chute like a Hitler-hating Jesse Owens in the 1936 Olympics.
As labor approached the noon hour, my mom asked if I wanted to run downstairs and get a sandwich with her because, “You need to keep your strength up too, Matty.” The wife gave me the go ahead as her contractions were light and I was not planning on being gone for long. 20 minutes later I walked back into the labor and delivery room and the wife had gone from being dilated at 4 to 6 (for those of you unfamiliar with the cervix during childbirth, this is like hitting a thirty-pointer in basketball).
Within the hour, the girl child was being tagged and our nurse was quoted as saying, “That was pretty intense.”
The House of Broz is currently fun, crazy and full of poop. Lots of poop.
Nameless Coworker: You had three calls come in for you in the past ten minutes.
Me: Oh really?
Nameless Coworker: Yeah. Where were you?
Me: Even Art Directors have to take shits.
Nameless Coworker: Nice.
During the height of my binge drinking days I could drain things down my gullet that would curl the stomach of a goat; straight whiskey, Irish Car Bombs, Natty Light and tequilas that do not even deserved to be named. I was blessed/cursed with an abnormally high metabolism and a steel stomach that allowed me to absorb alcohol faster than your average frat boy. Enter this past Saturday. The wife and I watched some Roller Derby with Jake and crew downing numerous tall boys of PBR in the process. I came home to spend a good clip on the toilet cursing the PBR and saddened that my once iron constitution is now broken.
One of my all time favorite comics is Archie because it is pure cliche, white bread Americana. I enjoy the simple artwork, the light-hearted story lines and the homoerotic undertones. With each issue I rooted for Archie to either come out of the closet to Jughead or grow some testicles and score with Betty or Veronica (or both). I definitely think Archie could have been the meat of a Riverdale love sandwich if he played his cards right (at the very least he could have pitted Betty and Veronica against one another for more entertaining story lines. I am talking about hot oil bikini wrestling matches, foxy boxing, pudding throwing and latex fashion shows). I even watched the made for TV movie Archie: To Riverdale and Back Again starring Lauren Holly a few years ago. It was terrific in its awfulness and its portrayal of Veronica as a turbo slut vying for Archie’s affections by showing up at his house in nothing but a trench coat and lingerie was awesome. Artist Steven Butler is giving the gang from Riverdale a facelift in 2007. I may have to pick up a Double Digest at the grocery store and get reacquainted with the kids when I am laying some foam ropes in the New Year.
Almost everyday around 10:30 in the morning, I proceed to the corporate washroom to evacuate my bowels. I am a regular man that enjoys his stall time and building on his high scores at cell phone bowling (my lady’s brother aptly refers to his stall time as a visit to the Fortress of Solitude). The problem with the corporate washroom is that every time you open the door, you are rolling the dice. Sometimes, its as fresh and sparkling as if the Mexican janitor just hosed it down with some industrial strength cleaner. Other times, its reminiscent of a monkey cage at the zoo. We have three stalls; two are regular size and one is of the jumbo, handicapped variety. Most people use the handicapped stall because it is spacious and makes one feel important. The amount of traffic to that stall is the very reason I never use it. I do not wish to share the same seat with a grubby salesperson that ate three microwavable cheeseburgers from a gas station for breakfast. My choice is limited to the remaining two stalls. I always choose the stall closest to the door due to my understanding of basic psychology, as most people do not prefer to sit in the seats closest to the door. I open said stall this morning and prepare to take care of business when I notice something on the toilet seat; a single curly hair. I conclude it is indeed a pubic hair, as no man in our office has the kinky, curly locks of Gabe Kaplan or a Jack Sikma. Disgusted, I exit the bathroom, walk down a flight of stairs and use the second floor commode. As of today I have officially instituted a floor down corporate shitting policy. Those mortgage fuckers seem more civilized, anyway.
Update floor down corporate shitting policy: I just returned from the second floor lavatories and must say that I am impressed. The bathroom smelled of a mountain spring, the toilets and floors were spotless and there was a copy of today’s paper left by a thoughtful gentlemen. All that was missing was a classical music feed, a hand towel attendant and a bowl of mints.
Last night I came home from work and made an exquisite meal; a grilled steak that I had let marinate all day, a baked potato, steamed broccoli and a cucumber and tomato salad drenched in Wishbone Italian dressing. It was as heavenly as it was succulent. I than put my dishes in the dishwasher and sped off to my hockey game. On the highway, my lower intestines began rumbling telling me to relieve my bowels immediately. I arrived at the rink late, with barely enough time to get my gear on and drop a deuce. So I tempted fate and decided to play with full insides. I tallied a hat trick and an assist in the contest and attribute it to the upset nature of my large intestines as I played the game with a sense of urgency that only a man who needed to take a shit could. From here on out, if I feel the tickle before any game, I will not close the deal until all is said and done.
On A Related Shit-Versus-Performance Note: If you are ever betting on hounds at your local dog track, keep your eye on the dogs before they reach the blocks. The first dog that stops to take a dump on the track before the race is the one you want to bet on.
In Asia, men are surgically implanting pearls in their cocks (known as Pearling), nut vendors are dressed like cheap whores and the Japanese are developing a perfect toilet. A glimpse into Asian culture is sometimes more bizarre than tripping acid at a Stryper concert. Take Asian porn for example. Imagine a woman seated in the middle of a room. Surrounding her are numerous naked men, masturbating like circus monkeys. When they are ready to unleash the dogs of war they use her body as a landing pad. This is called bukkake, and these videos are wildly popular in Southeast Asia (if you want a bukkake link, tough shit. The MB does not promote circle jerks unless we are talking about the punk band). My coworker Greg said it best: “If I did not have a girlfriend and a healthy fear of diseases, Southeast Asia would be a lot of fun.”