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It’s been a while. I’m sorry. Why? Laziness. I’ve taken a tip from the U.S Constitution’s preamble and deliberately misinterpreted it in order to satisfy my crippling lethargy: I take the “perfect Union” referenced by “in Order to form a more perfect Union” as the union of my ass with the couch. Thank you forefathers.

Now for the true post…

Impending fatherhood has encouraged me to hoard my time. Where once I may have used my few spare minutes to craft a blog post and sweat through a sit-up or two, I now requisition that time toward more lazy endeavors. Do you have any idea how many sit-ups I haven’t done in the past month? Neither do I. Counting is for active suckers.

Don’t get me wrong, I enjoy posting blogs. But I enjoy, perhaps just slightly more, having become so habitually lazy that I get winded just typing this sentence. There’s a morbid style of pride associated with being so out of shape that exercise may actually kill you. I’m not there yet, but I will cross my fingers (though not without first stretching to warm up those tendons).

Exhaustion could be a part of it. My wife and I haven’t slept well in a while. Since the pregnancy our cat, Burrito (or as my wife has named her, Your Fucking Cat), has taken to early morning choir practice at the foot of our bed. I, for one, encourage her participation in extra-curricular activities. My wife does not. We responded initially by shutting the cat away in other rooms, but the pitch of her wailing just grew in proportion to the number of doors and walls we put between us, and the volume in direct correlation to the number of pillows and hand grenades we threw at her.

Apparently this sort of strange behavior around pregnant women is normal for cats . And studies suggest also that the behavior is really fucking annoying. Why can’t cats respond to pregnancy in less aggravating ways? How about reacting to the hormones with 2am Taco Bell runs and free karate lessons? Do you have any idea, cat, how much extra Meow Mix you would get if you were to surprise me with a Chalupa and frenzied martial arts action? Lots. That’s how much.

And, though it is primarily my wife who is angered by Your Fucking Cat, it is I who must take care of the problem each night. Something about a cat’s toxic poop changes fetuses into retarded unicorn babies. Her inability to physically remove the cat from the room based on a fear of fecal contamination of course assumes that the cat had recently submerged itself in a tank of its own shit, turning every visible hair toxoplasmic. This is ridiculous, obviously, as Your Fucking Cat has yet to display intelligence enough to construct a feces dunk tank. She did once build a urine Slip-n-Slide, but the feat becomes less impressive when considering that she purchased the Slip-n-Slide pre-built and borrowed most of the urine from our dog. After all that work she wouldn’t even use it. She forgot that cats hate getting wet.*

If anyone has any ideas to shut a cat up, please let me know. I’m also open to adoption: Your Fucking Cat could become your fucking cat.

*Yes, the cat could have rolled around in its litter box, and therefore coated herself in the parasite. But by that logic I could be contaminated with the Kick Ass Itchies and Awesome Pox. Yes, I am saying that I often roll around in piles of Kick Ass Itchy and Awesome Pox-causing substances.
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About this site:

These are the words of a man learning to be a father with nothing to guide him but the wisdom of friends, his wife, his family, and some pretty good hunches…like, really good hunches, though.

Action Montage:

4 weeks

8 weeks

12 weeks

16 weeks

20 weeks

24 weeks

28 weeks

The Goal (replace dotted line with actual profile)

Read this…

"A Mean Utility" short story from Craig Davidson's collection, Rust and Bone.(This goes to an excerpt; the full story deals more with fatherhood, I promise)

Shit Yeah, Another Baby. by By Amber Richardson

Archives: A history of things I’ve likely already forgotten

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