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My wife asked me to stop smoking cigars. So I’ve taken up heroin. It’s not so bad really. I have an audition next week for an early 90s grunge band.

Based on her request for me to cease smoking one might imagine me as the typical aficionado, chewing on a giant salami-sized toro while I discuss, with my similarly equipped friend/CEO/ol’chap, purebred dog shows and the acquisition of my newest negro. In this scenario I’m likely wearing a tailored suit made of poor people, too. The truth is, I enjoy a cigar every few days and always outdoors. Besides, any discussion of purebred dog shows necessitates a monocle, which I don’t own.

The fear of possible medical complications is a valid one, but one I argue is not justified given the aforementioned distance I keep between my delicious cigar smoke and our delicious embryo. I fear fathering a child with 2 ½ balls and more hands than fingers as much as the next guy, but I’m certain that slightly smoke-tainted clothing just won’t deliver those sorts of results.

I love my wife for her caution. It’s likely that if both of us were as passive and nonchalant about the process as I am, our kid would be born with hemp skin and a bongo drum. Luckily, we aren’t, and it is this very caution which prompted a recent sonogram and the resulting assurance that our child will always be safe.

It turns out we are giving birth to Jesus. Jesus, jr. technically. So ef-you grilled cheese lady and frying pan guy, the days of inorganic manifestations is over. I reveal unto thee, Embryo Jesus. The image was hard to see initially, but after a sprinkle of Holy Photoshop the face of Christ revealed itself to us (LEFT).

Assured now of the health of our child I’m more relaxed and consequently more susceptible to some other manifestations that have recently come to me. I’m amazed by all that I simply overlooked before. I found the commandment “thou shall not steal” on this milk crate that I stole (BELOW LEFT). He appeared in an x-ray of my cigar-blackened lungs (in which he seems to be enjoying a stogie of his own; I knew Jesus was cool with it) (BELOW RIGHT).

And perhaps strangest of all, after taking a picture of my wife wearing her favorite cross-strap shoes, a vague impression of the crucifixion appeared (BELOW RIGHT). Look close.

We haven’t given up on prenatal vitamins in lieu of this godly support, though I do suspect their continued use comes across as a slightly condescending: “no, really Jesus. I believe in your power to heal. I take the vitamins because I love the cherry taste and the way they turn my poo orange.”

But you know, now that I think about it we probably should have recognized the signs as soon as we learned of the pregnancy. The positive peestick seems strangely revelatory in hindsight (BELOW):

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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:

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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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