Momma told me not to come...
There are certain unforgettable moments in everyone’s life where society decides it is time for you to journey forth from the innocent world of childhood and enter the nightmare reality of adulthood. The greater commonwealth of those in charge, the secret Cabal of them, the unholy collective will of those who profess to know what is better “in the long run” for the individual than we do ourselves have mastered a particular educational technique (which they fiendishly employ at critical moments in the growth of living organisms) by which minds are shattered and we as lambs are led into humble submission to the law and unnatural order of society.
What is this horrific and devious technique you ask? Why are you unable to remember being subjected to such a mind altering experience? Let me see if I can refresh your memories and bring to your conscious mind the horrors that will always haunt the deeper corridors of your unconscious psyche. I’ll start with the ladies.
Do you remember those sweet days of youth where life was a celebration of pinafore dresses, Patent-leather shoes and gentle teachers guiding you in the gentile arts of Crayola? The yuckiest thing imaginable was boys, frogs being a close second. Then, without warning came that day in fourth grade. All of the girls were so excited. The movie projector implied a welcomed break from the boredom of grammar and the rigors of mathematics. The lights went down, the film began and life would never be the same afterwards. Oh, now you remember; “The secrets of men-stru-ation; one girl’s journey into womanhood.
Surely none of us have forgotten the Driver’s Education film? It was all fun and games behind the wheel until the lights went down. Who amongst us did not suffer from nightmares for weeks after being subjected to the images of twisted steel, mangled flesh and bloody decapitations? That film alone was responsible for keeping me out of the automobile and riding a ten-speed bicycle well into my late thirties. What was name of that movie? Oh yes, Billy and Susie versus the train.
Until last night I believed my experience with these types of propaganda films had concluded with the viewing of the Venereal Disease classic, Billy Loses His Gun during Marine Corps boot camp just before our first leave. My penis still shrivels up and quivers in fear every time I recall any of the pus-filled-ulcerated-bleeding-sore-images-of-rotting penile infection that brought an entire squad-bay of leather-neck-dealers-of-death to our collective knees retching in horror.
The evening began like any other of the birthing classes. The women were reclining in comfortable pillow filled lounge chairs while we the men sat at their feet in the full lotus position chanting our mantra, “The uterus is our friend, and our only concern is the welfare of the mother. This is about our wives, and not about us.” Everything seemed completely familiar and comfortable until the lights went out. That’s when the film started; Susie Gives Birth-the Directors Cut.
Ten minutes into the movie most of the men in the room were flopping around on the floor like fish out of water with their eyes rolled back in their heads and mewling like wounded kittens. Just before swooning and falling to the floor myself I seem to remember the female instructor shouting something along the lines of, “You want the truth? You can’t handle the truth!” Things get a little fuzzy after that, but I will try my best to report the incident as clearly as I remember it happening.
As consciousness slowly began returning to my shattered mind I was greeted by a sight that will forever remain etched upon the cave walls of my masculine soul. In the darkness of the room, illuminated only by the flickering images of the birthing process upon the movie screen stood the instructor, her head thrown back, arms swaying slowly back and forth above her head as she spoke in a language known only to women since the dawn of time. Our wives danced in a pelvis grinding circle around the men lying at their feet all the while waving breast pumps high above their heads in a frenzied celebration of victory. They were singing an ancient song of fertility the only lyrics of which I can recall went something like, “My hump, my hump; my sexy lady hump...”
Then next thing I remember is the lights being back on and sitting up with a cold towel draped upon my forehead. The instructor was handing out D.V.D. copies of the film we’d just been subjected to along with instructions on how to use it if any husband began forgetting his place. It was then I truly understood; the party is over...
Tonight, while certain bastards enjoy the meaningless cavorting of young men throwing balls through a hoop in something called The Big Dance, I think I will enjoy a quiet evening at home with my wife enjoying the movie, Love Story. Tomorrow I will follow my wife’s suggestion and see just how much my PlayStation II and video game collection will bring in at the yard sale towards the baby’s college fund.