Let's Roll the Dice!

People keep asking me how I feel about having a baby. In a civil society, I guess that’s a pretty reasonable question to ask someone who’s going to have a kid soon.

“Oh you’re having a kid? How exciting!”

“Yeah, it’s good stuff.”

“Are you nervous? Excited?”

It’s a connection people want to make. And I appreciate that they want to make it. But part of me feels like I can’t be honest in these exchanges.

“Are you nervous? Excited?”

“Yeah, a bit of both.”

That’s honest, but it’s withholding.

Still, people are satisfied with that. They don’t seem to want more. They got to be friendly by demonstrating an interest. And I got to pretend that I’m not a sociopath by not being more honest.

So what is this nagging itch inside of me that wants to be more honest? Why can’t I leave well enough alone? Maybe it’s just so boring telling acquaintance after acquaintance that I’m “super excited, but yeah, a bit nervous too.” But I really feel like there is no room in our society for the honesty of a new parent to be.

“You’re pregnant?”

“Well, no. My wife is. I don’t have a vagina.” But we covered this already.

“Okay… weirdo. Are you excited?”

“Yeah. I’m pretty excited. But in kind of an ‘Oh my fuck, I have no idea what’s coming’ kind of way. If that makes sense.”

“What? No. What do you mean?”

And this is the point in my make believe conversation where I really open up. Because first of all I am stoked. But I'm not excited in the normal sense. Like if I buy a new car. I'm really excited. It's new. It's like a new toy almost. A really expensive new toy. But one that should last a really long time. Adrenaline. Excitement. Pride. Summer heat, windows rolled down, music blaring, driving down the highway. Exciting.

Or the excitement at having sex the first time. Something new. You're not sure what it's going to feel like, but you're pretty sure it's going to be amazing. And it will most likely end with an orgasm (unless you’re a woman). Pretty exciting stuff.

Well, this baby isn't going to end with an orgasm, though it did start with one (woo-hoo!). And it's not really a toy. It is really expensive. But not a toy. Also, unlike a new car (or other purchase), I can't just get a new one if it breaks. If it breaks, I will likely be devastated.

Which reminds me, a baby can die. This is not exciting at all. A baby can grow up to be 15 and get run over by a semi. A baby can get cancer. A baby can be born with non-functioning vital organs and die almost immediately after being born. There's a shitload of bad things that can happen that will really bum me out. If my new car is a lemon, there are laws that say I get a new one. If my baby is a lemon, I’m stuck with it. And I’ve got some amount of emotional investment in this little guy (or gal) already.

(At this point, I’d like to point out why I can’t have this conversation in normal society… Acquaintances generally frown upon statements like, “If my baby is a lemon…” No sense of humor.)

And unlike having sex for the first time, if it disappoints, I can't just try again. I don't really have any expectations for my baby. I'm not into expectations. So it will be hard for the baby to disappoint. But I do have a few expectations. I expect that a child of mine will not be a criminal or a drug addict. I expect that my wife and I will be able to intervene in either of those possible outcomes. But if the baby is a junkie hooker, I'll still have to love it. If it’s a murdering cannibal, it'll be my murdering cannibal. Jeffrey Dahmer's parents visited him in prison, right? I think I'll be bummed out if my baby is Jeffrey Dahmer, but Jeffrey Dahmer will still be my baby. I can't throw it back. It’s my job as a parent to love and support my little monster.

While those are slim possibilities, there’s a strong chance that my baby will  run into any number of mental health issues that it will inherit... from me. O.C.D. Depression. Social anxiety. My baby could be a lifetime of unhappiness waiting to happen. Yikes. Having a baby really requires you to take an almost arrogant gamble on your genetic code.

“Hey honey, what’s in your DNA?”

“Lots of cancer. How ‘bout you?”

“Well, all my grandparents made it to 90, but some of ‘em went crazy!”

“Fuck it! Maybe our baby will get your physical constitution and my family’s relatively stable psyches!” We high five.

 “Let’s roll the dice!”

And with that we conceived! But let’s assume all goes well. Physically healthy baby. Not the type to eat people. Mentally stable. Baby is born with a predisposition and genetic code fit for a long, healthy, happy life.

But that’s just the predisposition! There’s still the possibility of my wife and I taking a healthy predisposition and turning it into a cross-wired, twisted disposition. Take into account my own inability to function as a human being, let alone as a father for a minute. I'm out in the world crapping my pants, I don't do the dishes or laundry enough, I don't clean… ever. I'm barely functioning.

A friend of mine tells me once you have a baby, it all kicks in. So now I’m banking on instincts kicking in to make me a reasonable human being? I'm depending on a baby that won’t be able to hold its head up to kick me into gear? Holy shit is that a bad idea.

What kind of direction and stability can I possibly provide when I have had so very little sense of direction myself?

And yet I've never in my life been as sure of anything as much as I am sure that I want to have children. And that I am excited for this baby. So that's kind of what I mean by I'm excited in an "Oh my fuck, I have no idea what's coming" way. And since no one wants to hear any of this, when they ask, “Are you nervous? Excited?” I just tell them, “Yeah, a bit of both.”

The Snake!

So I'm 30-years old and I'm still on Facebook. I don't really use it. It's mostly a marketing tool because I'm in a couple hobby rock bands. Props to Andrew for coming up with "hobby rock." If the Remarkables or the Counterfeit Money Machine play a show, there's enough people on Facebook still that we can create an event and get the word out easily. This seems to be what everyone does on there these days. Whenever I see someone post a genuine, trying to make a connection status, like, "Went to the grocery store...all out of strawberries...boooo!" I kind of smile and think, "People are still doing this?"

It's almost all events and people sharing internet memes. And me telling people to read my blog. Generally, it's all white noise for me. The only events I care about are the ones I'm promoting. I get invited to 10 things a day, and they all just get deleted. But today, one of them caught my eye.

"You're invited to Jake the Snake's 30th birthday party!"

I am? Awesome. Jake the Snake was a guy I went to grade school with who I haven't talked to in probably 10 years. And that was probably a drunken grunt at a bar.

"Hey, aven't seen you ins like, hit's been uh-while, huh?"

"S'what're y'up to 'ese days?"

Brilliant conversation. Before that it had to have been another six years since we graduated from Catholic school together. But somewhere along the line, we became "friends" on Facebook. Probably because one of us wanted to see how fat each other had gotten. I assume I was invited simply because whoever was throwing the party had invited everyone in his "friends" group. Jake and I had never really been friends, we'd been more of rivals. But all the same, I think we had a pretty healthy childhood rivalry. We were both kind of competing alpha males of sorts, I guess. All in all, I wish him well and harbor no ill will towards him at all.

Having said that... what caught my eye about this particular Facebook event invite, what made me stop and do a double take and notice this particular party out of the many comedy show invites and bad improv invites was this simple fact:

Jake the Snake can't have a 30th birthday party. Jake can turn 30. But Jake the Snake cannot turn 30.

If you're 30 years old and you're still Jake the Snake, you better be in a coma. And everybody better be calling you "the Snake" to cheer themselves up.

"Remember when the Snake split the defenders in the 5th grade championship game and drove to the hole for the winning layup?"

"Yeah, that was great."

"You're gonna pull through buddy, you're Jake the Snake! The Snake always pulls it out in the end!"

If you're 30, can hold a job, but you're not a porn star, a wrestler, or an NFL quarterback, you are not Jake the Snake. You're just Jake now. And, in point of fact, you're probably not even Jake. You're probably John.

It's kind of a loaded name to give a child. Jake. Because all Jake's are the Snake. When parents decide to name their kid Jake, they wink at each other knowingly, "Not just 'Jake'," their eyes say. "'Jake the Snake.'" Then they nod their heads and furrow their brows as they give each other mental high fives. Real original guys.

As my wife and I are considering baby names, I can tell you this much, Jake will not be an option. And not because of my childhood rival. But just because of the implied "Snake" moniker. Maybe if we could subvert it somehow. We name our son Jake, and when he starts playing basketball and people start calling him, "The Snake," we interrupt them.

"--whoa, whoa, whoa. He's not the Snake. He's Cornflake Jake. Have you ever seen this kid eat corn flakes?"

Jake the Quake. We train him to just be really fat.

Piece of Cake Jake. Everything's really easy for him.

Jake the Mistake. Oopsy-daisy. We weren't trying not to hard enough.

Anything but the Snake. In all probability though, there will be no Jake. Now I just hope that Jake doesn't see this on Facebook and think I'm obsessed with him. But let's be honest, no one uses Facebook any more except for spamming people with events.

My Favorite Thing About Gay Porn

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"We" Are NOT Pregnant...But My Wife Is

I really hate it when people use the phrase "We're pregnant." Because no we are not. We do not have a vagina. One of us does. She is pregant. I, on the other hand, not so much. It's not even a possibility really.

We did not stop getting our period. Our boobs have not gotten bigger. Well, they might have. I did eat entirely too much last night. I feel a little more saggy today. But it's a totally different animal. We have not been nauseous. Ellen has been. I've been pretty good. I did have to take some Tums a few weeks back... not pleasant. But we have not been vomiting. We have both had a lack of energy, but for very different reasons. She's pregnant. I'm lazy.

In addition to our not being pregnant, we haven't been "trying." Really for most of our relationship we've been trying NOT to get pregant. But we didn't suddenly put in some extra effort and now she's pregnant. We didn't reach down deep for that last bit of energy. We did not dial it up a notch in the bedroom. That shit was already dialed. Hello! That's ridiculous. Sorry.

But what is this "trying"? And why do people tell other people that they are trying? I do not understand this behavior. Do you think people care that you're using sex for its biological purpose? They don't. It's odd to me that people get pregnant and then don't tell people they're pregnant because of the possibility of miscarriage. But people do let everyone know they're "trying" to get pregnant. I don't need the image of you lighting candles and planning a romantic night of wishful pregnancy sex. It's gross to me. Please don't tell me you're trying.

Also, don't tell me you're trying because it's just wrong. Let's go to thought exercise land. Say you were shooting baskets in your alley, but you never scored. And the reason you never scored wasn't because you were a bad shooter. Rather, it was because you put a piece of wood over the basket. You did this because you knew that if you actually scored, the ball going through your hoop was going to set off some weird David Lynch movie twist where your life was going to get flipped on its head. You don't really know what's going to change if you score. But you know it's going to really be a big change.

Your shooting was fine. And you wanted to get better at shooting. You just didn't want to score. Then one day, you remove the piece of wood. "Fuck it," you tell yourself. "I'm bored with life. Maybe I should totally change my life with no real idea of how it's going to change."

You remove the piece of wood and you score, setting off insane life changes that you are in no way prepared for. You shit your pants man. You are fat and lazy. You're posting metaphors on the internet where your baby is a David Lynch movie twist and your motivation was boredom. What the fuck are you doing? You idiot. Life is so easy right now you dumb son of a bitch.

All of that aside, when you removed the wood did you suddenly start trying? No! You were just trying not to before.

Anyway, we are not pregnant. Nor were we trying. But Ellen is pregnant. We weren't "trying." We just stopped trying not to. Also, it turns out I have a really hard time spelling "pregnant." I left the first "n" off each time I typed it.

So there will probably be more baby stuff on here. And I'm actually totally stoked. I just think this shit is funny.

A Bunch of Old One-Liners

When I was doing stand up, before I started doing bits about eating babies, people saying "lol," and what a terrible person I am, I was doing one-liners. I thought I'd give imitating Mitch Hedberg a shot. They weren't that good though. And on paper, I guess they end up being like "Deep Thoughts" by Jack Handey. But again, not that good. But instead of more self-embarrassment, I thought I might post a few of them. Just to lighten up a bit...

Would you rather be mauled by a bear or a lion? For me there's no question about it. It's the bear. I'm allergic to cats. The last thing I need while I'm being mauled to death is to be sneezing.

If you adopt a highway, and then you litter on it, is that child abuse?

Why do skinheads shave their heads? It's like, "Don't you know Hitler had a combover and a mustache?"

I'm really mad at Hitler because he ruined that mustache. You can't wear it anymore. Even Michael Jordan couldn't pull it off. People got mad. I think it's a pretty good mustache, aside from Hitler. Why couldn't he have had a soul patch instead? Ruin that. If Hitler had a soul patch and Stalin had a chinstrap beard, the world would be a better place.

I wonder if Hitler's mom knew, when she was giving birth to him that her son would forever ruin the name Adolf.

Enough Hitler...

I was at a wine tasting in June. The guy conducting the tasting kept telling me about the soil, or "terroir." "This grape comes from the mountains in northern Italy. The soil there is perfect for this variety of grape." It made me wonder if the soil outside of Dachau is perfect for anything. Maybe Dachau is perfect for Merlot.

(That really happened. I didn't think it or put it into writing to make light of the Holocaust or its victims. The thought just occurred to me that we'll never know, and I thought it was kind of funny. I do NOT support the Holocaust.)

Enough Holocaust...

Why do we call it a "foxhole"? If a fox digs itself a home in the ground, do we call it a "place to hide from bombs and shit?"

I don't know why people don't walk around in big plastic gerbil balls. Sure, it would be super hard to get around, and you'd bounce off things, and giants could pick you up and shake the ball and you'd get all dizzy and nauseous and piss yourself all the time. But hey, you're naked in public.

It's probably a bad idea to refer to smoking weed as "getting stoned" if you're in Iran. A friend asks, "How's your sister?" "I don't know. She's probably somewhere getting stoned again." Some passerby overhears this, "She was probably reading Salman Rushdie!"

Research shows that kids who watch violent movies act violently. It also shows that kids who watch Blues Clues until they're 12 act like sheltered little pussies.

The last time I bragged about being fat was when I was on a seesaw.

I love beer. But beer is an acquired taste. Which makes me respect the guy who invented it even more. He created beer, thought, "Well, this is terrible." But then made some more, just in case it grew on him.

I used to work at Best Buy in the media department. A woman asked me where she could find the new Beanie Mann album. I told her it's under the Ms, thinking that she had looked under B for Beanie. A few moments later she couldn't find it and she asked me again. So I walk her over to the Ms. I point at it, and say, "It's right there." There's a huge section of just that album right in front of her, and she says, "Which one?" It occurs to me then that she can't read. So I pick up the album and hand it to her. Ain't nothing funny about that.

There's one indisputable truth I've come to accept in life: You're never out of toilet paper. You're just in need of a shower.

More later.

The Last Time I Shit Myself

Have you ever been in a situation where you're with a group of people and someone brings up something that would be embarrassing, and one person in the group admits they've had it happen to them, and you know it's happened to you too, but you don't say anything because you want to save face in front of that group of people, and so everyone leaves the person who admitted the embarrassing hanging? (I don't know how to construct that thought into a sentence.) I have.

When I was in high school a group of people I was trying to be friends with were talking after lunch and "sharts" came up. For those of you who don't know, a "shart" is when you think it's a fart, but it's not a fart. It's a shitty fart, or "shart." (To those of you who read this, "shart" is not the same thing as "bromance," because "shart" is the perfect word for this situation, while "friend" is the perfect word for what people are describing when they say "bromance." "Shart" is not cute. It's a shitty fart.) So sharting comes up and everyone says, "Ewww... that's gross." Or something along those lines. I had just sharted a few days earlier, and I wanted to be the brave soul who said, "Hey, it happens." But I wasn't. My friend Tom was.

It was a while ago, but if I remember correctly the exchange went something like this:

ME: Sharting? Yeah, that's the worst when that happens!

JACK: Are you saying you shit yourself?

TOM: I have. Just this Summer. I thought it was a fart. It wasn't! That shit happens to everyone!

ME: I mean, it's never actually happened to me. I just think it would be the worst. (laughter at Tom's expense by the entire group.)

JACK, AARON, ZACK: Gross Tom! What the fuck! Oh man.

Hung. Out. To. Dry.

So I come to you today to atone for my sins. I firmly believe that EVERYONE has shit themselves as an adult. And it's okay. So as an apology to Tom, here is the story of the last time I shit myself.

August 29, 2009

I had been living with my two roommates for three years and it was all coming to an end. August 31 would be the last day of our lease at Altgeld House. The three of us had been in a band together called Altgeld Forgotten, and we lived in a coach house that shared a yard with our landlord. The landlord was the oldest son of a widow. They lived in the main house with one of the landlord's sisters and two enormous and not at all shy dogs.

It was a really good system we had set up. We paid the bills on time and didn't cause any trouble. In exchange they didn't care that we played really loud music in the laundry room. But it was coming to an end. One of my roommates was moving in with his girlfriend, and the band was no more.

On Saturday, most of my stuff was moved out. But I needed to shampoo the carpet in my room. In order to do that, we needed to rent a carpet shampooer from Home Depot. I also need to return two movies to Blockbuster. (Remember Blockbuster?) Before I do that though, I go out to lunch at Lou Malnati's with my future wife ("Fiancee'" if you insist) and two friends. We get the butter crust. I never got the butter crust, and I was feeling like an end of an era deserved a little extra butter action. We eat. Everything's good.

I have to drop off my future wife at her apartment, and I do. But on my way there, I notice my stomach is starting to rumble a bit. "Nevermind," I think. "It's fine. I'm just going to have to take a shit when I get home."

I drive back across town to the one Home Depot that I know exists. On North Avenue over by the expressway. In hindsight there are way more convenient Home Depots, but I never went to Home Depot, and that's the only one I could think of.

On my way over there, my stomach gets worse. It's getting really tight. "Wheeeeeze GA-LUMP" it's saying. High pitched whining sound followed by a loud dropping. Things are not good. I notice that my asshole is starting to sweat. I'm sweating. I'm very uncomfortable. And I'm thinking I should just go home. But I clench, grin, and bare it. I've come this far.

I make it to the Home Depot parking lot, park the car, and sit there for a while. For a more vivid description of what I'm going through, see "I Wanna Be a Bear." I pull myself together, take a deep breath, and step out of my car into the late August heat and humidity. As I enter the Home Depot, my stomach settles down. It all goes away. Everything is promising.

There's a sign for tool rentals, and I head in that direction. There are a couple people in front of me, so I walk around looking at the equipment for rent: power tools, lawn mowers, vaccum cleaners, etc. About 15 minutes go by and it's finally my turn. I tell the guy I need a carpet shampooer. He brings me over to them. He shows me how to use it, shows me the soap I need to buy to use it, and he tests it out. Simple enough.

I get the thing rolling out to the parking lot, and then I need to carry it, because it won't roll on the asphalt. This thing is heavy. Super heavy. Super awkward. There's no good way to hold it. And wouldn't you know, just as I pick it up, my stomach says, "GA-LUMP!" So now my asshole goes into full clenching mode. I'm tempted to ditch the thing and make a beeline for the Home Depot bathroom. But there's no way that's a hygenic place, so I'm seeing this through. I'm going home. I clench my ass as tight as I can, and I begin quickly shuffling across the parking lot.

I get to my car, open the trunk, and try to just jam this thing in there. I'm going too fast though, and it won't fit. The sonofabitch won't fit in my trunk. I'm sweating profusely. It's hot out. My stomach is twisting and flopping. I'm afraid the back of my pants has got sweat stains showing through because there's just a puddle back there. And now I've got to figure out how to get this thing to fit into the trunk.

I try putting the handle end in first and then rotating it in. That doesn't work.

I try standing it up to get the bottom of it in and then rotating it forward. That doesn't work.

Finally, I get the bottom in sideways, and I'm able to move the bottom end deep enough into the trunk that I can rotate the handle in and lie it down on its side. Relief. I get it in.

I get in my car. I've never ever ever had to shit so bad. I honestly feel like I'm going to burst. It hurts. It physically hurts. It's like I'm having cramps. Or contractions! There's something in me. It's alive. And it wants out. I get on the expressway.

My pizza lovechild settles down. She stops kicking. Now my shit is a female. It's true. Only a woman could be this much of a bitch. (I'm kidding. That's a terrible joke. I apologize. But I DO NOT delete! NEVER GO BACK!) It settles down, and I see the two movies I need to return tantalizing me on the shotgun seat.

"Return us..."

"Take us back to Blockbuster..."

"It's settled down. You can make it. You don't want to have to make another trip later, do you?"

"Do you?"

Fuck it. I'm returning the movies. The nerve of me. What a dickhead move. But that's the terrible decision I make.

I get off the highway. I get into the Blockbuster parking lot. I leave the car running. Ass clenched, I waddle to the return box and drop off the movies. Then I waddle back to the car.

"GA-LUMP. Psssssssssssss. Wheeze. GA-LUMP. GA-LUMP." Oh God. If I had never ever ever had to shit so bad before I was telling the truth. But it's also true that five minutes after that sensation, I once again reached a point where I never ever ever had to shit so bad before. It's worse is what I'm saying here.

I start praying. Please God, don't let me shit my pants. Not in my car. Not like this. Not after all I've gone through. Not four blocks from my house.

I drive recklessly to get home. And I pull into our driveway. I immediately notice that the landlord is in the yard with his two overly friendly dogs. And it occurs to me that he's going to want to talk, since we're almost leaving after a three year relationship. I sit there doing pregnancy breathing exercises (at least what I think those are from movies and TV), waiting for him to go away from the gate.

When he does, I open the door and run for the gate. I open it. I walk as quickly as possible to our front door. But the dogs come running. As I get my key in the door, one of the dogs is jumping on me and the other is burying its nose in my ass.

"Bluto! Goofy! Get over here," the landlord says. (Those weren't their names, but I can't remember their names, so whatever. They're huge though.) I get my key in the door and start to turn. "Hey Lou, how's it going in there?"

"Can't talk! More later!" I shout back. I turn the doorknob.

I'm in. I sprint for the bathroom in the laundry room. No toilet paper. Fuck.

I spring up the stairs. Stopping for cramps every fifth step. I go to the main bathroom. No toilet paper. My roommate Steve is home.

"Did you get the carpet cleaner?"

"Can't talk!" I run to my other roommate's room, because he has a bathroom in there too. Yes, three bathrooms. $1400/month. Three bedrooms. Kitchen. Living room. Laundry room. Garage. I love Logan Square.

No toilet paper in his bathroom. Fuck it. I go in there. I take three deep breathes as I undo my pants. I stand in front of the toilet clenching. I drop my pants, but I'm clenching so hard, my underwear are stuck between my cheeks. I manage to pick them out and drop them too. I line myself up. I know I'm going to give birth on the way down.

"Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh..." I scream as I sit. Everything falls out. "Oh my God. Yes. Thank you Jesus." I'm saying this all out loud.

"What the fuck are you doing?" I hear Steve calling from the other room.

"I made it Steve! I made it!"

"Whatever."

Still, there's no toilet paper. I call Steve. He comes to the door. I ask him if there's any toilet paper. He says he packed it, but he can get some. He calls me names, throws in a couple "Goddamnits." I don't care. I made. I accomplished all I set out to do. I ate lunch. I got the carpet cleaner. I returned the movies. Despite the shit I had to take. And I didn't shit my pants. Amazing stuff.

Steve returns and does the blind arm through the door toilet paper throw to me. I wipe up. I go back out to the car, I struggle to get the carpet cleaner out, but I do. I shampoo my carpet. I pack the last of my things. I give the carpet cleaner to Steve. We say our goodbyes. And I get in the car to drive to my brother's: where I'll be living until the wedding.

On my way to my brother's, I notice that I'm low on gas. So I stop at the Speedway at North and Kimball (I think Kimball, maybe Pulaski). I start the pump, and I go inside to get a bottle of water.

I chug the water while I'm walking back to the car. I'm super dehydrated from all the sweating and shitting. I throw out the water bottle and I go to put the pump back. As I'm standing there in front of the gas pump, I've got to fart. I can't possibly have anything left in me. I think it's a fart.

Only it's not a fart. And after all of that. After everything. I shit my pants.

And in fairness to Tom, that's not really even the last time I shit my pants. Sadly, it's happened at least once since then. But fuck you. You've done it too. If you've got the balls, let's all come clean. When was the last time you shit your pants?

I'll Stop the World (and Masturbate)

Speaking of O.C.D., my last post reminds me of growing up Catholic. There were some good things about growing up Catholic, but there was a lot of guilt. And I'll tell you this, Catholicism and O.C.D. are a lethal combination.

I grew up on the same block as my church. There was [is] a statue of a life-size Jesus standing on a three foot pedestal on the block where I grew up. He just stands there looking out at the sidewalk and parking lot, with his arms out and palms open. Judging.

I'm walking to my friend Charlie's house and we're going to play ding dong ditch? I have to walk past Jesus on my way home. I walk to my friend Pat's house and I end up punching Pat in the face? Jesus is there. I actually took a different route home once--I walked two blocks out of my way--because I had been looking at a Playboy at my friend's house and I didn't want to have to see statue Jesus.

The Jesus statue was north of my house. When I was in Kindergarten through fourth grade, most of my friends were north of my house. Interestingly, by 8th grade all of my friends lived to the south. Was that just because I didn't want to have to walk past Jesus? Probably not. Probably more like my friends to the north were dicks. But I like to think Jesus psyched me out a bit.

In later years, I took a girlfriend to the church parking lot across the street from Jesus and we made out in my parents giant brown van. In hindsight, it's kind of creepy to be in a big brown Ford van making out in the back. At the time, I thought it was creepy that Jesus was staring at me the whole time.

What's the point? The guilt. I went to Catholic school K-8. There were some pretty good teachers there, I'll admit. But there were also a lot of teachers who were super close-minded and would hammer home lectures on "sins." And I do think it's odd that my sex education classes left me with little to no understanding of sex, orgasms, or what a vagina looked like. Until I saw a Playboy in 7th grade, I thought vaginas were like little mouths hidden behind the pubes. I masturbated for two years to the concept of anatomically incorrect female bodies. Boobs are all that really mattered.

What I did get from sex education was that masturbating is a sin. A big sin. It's a terrible thing. At the same time, I had years of indoctrination that sinners go to Hell. Being a logical person, I put two and two together, and came up with this rule: Masturbators go to Hell.

The first time I masturbated, I didn't even understand what I was doing. I just kind of started tugging, thought it felt pretty good, and suddenly "WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS WHITE SHIT?" I thought I was diseased. Leprosy. I was terrified of leprosy because of the Bible, so every time anything out of the ordinary happened I was sure I was a leper. Totally ridiculous.

After a couple more times, I realized what was going on. I was masturbating. Because Masturbators go to Hell, I tried to stop. I went five days without doing it. Praying each night for God to take away my urges. On the fifth night I had a wet dream. So I'm damned if I do. I'm damned if I don't. Literally.

I came up with an agreement with God that I would only do it every third night, just to avoid having a wet dream again. So for a year, I masturbated every third night. And each masturbation event was followed by the most intense crying and prayer.

"I'm sorry Jesus. Please forgive me. Please don't send me to Hell. I don't want these urges. Really, why would you give me these urges if I'm not supposed to act on them? It's crazy. Where do you get the nerve-- Sorry Jesus. I didn't mean that. Who am I to question God's wisdom and God's plan? I'm nobody. Please don't smite me. Please don't make me a leper."

Now understand that there's all kinds of O.C.D. shit going on here too. I believe I'm going to die and go to Hell if I don't touch my face an equal number of times with both hands every time I touch my face. I believe I'm going to die and go to Hell if I exit a building through a different door than the door I entered the building. I don't say the word "Hell" or "Goddamn," I don't even say "God" unless it's reverently. I'm insane. What do you think is going to happen if I masturbate?

Fast forward to June 3, 1994. I'm in my bedroom on an unscheduled day. Some 8th grader was looking real pretty that day at school. Maybe even the last day of school. I'm a pubescent boy. Alone. In my room. I tell myself I'm just going to play with it a little bit, but I'm not going to go all the way. So I do. But I fly too close to the Sun. My parents are in the living room with the news on. I've got to go to the bathroom to clean up, after my obligatory Hail Marys and Our Fathers.

I leave the room and walk to the bathroom. But on my way to the bathroom I hear the TV.

"A tsunami has hit off the coast of Indonesia. Hundreds are feared dead, thousands missing. With more we go to our correspondent reporting from Bali."

DID I DO THAT?

Now I'm back in my room crying and praying and crying and praying because I'm positive, I know that God killed all these people to teach me a lesson.

Commandment 11: Thou shalt not masturbate on unscheduled days when you have an agreement in place!

During seventh grade, all of my peers would begin talking publicly about their masturbation habits, and I relaxed a bit. EVERYONE is masturbating. We can't all go to Hell.