Sunday, July 12, 2009

Year 1: My Birth

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I've decided to undertake an ambitious project to light a fire under my ass to start writing in my Totally Gay Online Diary again. It shall involve, in stunning detail, a post each day about every year of my life. Ending in 33 days (Because I'm 33, you see) I will have successfully navigated the stories of my life for all 9 of you that continue to read this. The important stuff, at any rate. I'll be rusty. I'm sure I'll pick up steam along the way, though.

Let's begin, shall we?

I was born at exactly noon. I came out with one arm pointing out ahead of me like Superman flying. Or maybe I was side-stroking out on a wave of amniotic fluid. I was always good at that. Anyways, one minute later, the first nurse would comment on the unusually large size of my junk. They had to sew two diapers together to accommodate it.

I was born a pitching wedge's distance from where a friend of mine would be shot and killed approximately 17 years, 5 months, and 9 days later. And a driver-wedge away from the church parking lot I would have sex in shortly thereafter.

Jesus would have been so proud of me. If he were in any way real, that is.

I spent much of that year batting my long eyelashes at the ladies, getting uncontrollable boners, and peeing on whoever had to change me. Once an angry urinator always an angry urinator, I've always said to girls on our first date. You know, just to get it out of the way before there are any issues.

Everyone was astounded by how long my fingers were and how my feet were so big. This, along with the size of my junk, was the earliest indication that I was meant to be an NBA basketball player, fathering eight or nine kids by eight or nine different baby mama's along the way. Alas, my parents neglected to feed me the proper nutrients required to grow to my predetermined (by the Big Bang Theory) height of 6'3". But that's technically a story for another year of my life. The one where I didn't grow that tall and didn't get into the NBA and only ended up fathering some 4 or 5 kids on my meager salary. Honestly, I don't know how white trash losers do it. Having 8 or 9 kids without the benefit of fame and money is tough. Still though, 4 or 5 kids running around out there somewhere is a solid testament to how much stank I was getting on my hang low despite missing out on my lucrative NBA contract by 4 inches. Respect.

I was the best baby, by the way. Smartest, funniest, cutest, and most agile. In fact, I never lost a fight in my age group. One time I stepped up to fight with the two year olds and some fat fucking kid cheated and used his tremendous girth to pin me. I had to tap out. Underground fighting circuits are no joke. To this day I don't trust fat people or underground fighting circuits not run by Asians.

That was pretty much it.

(They can't all be gold)

Gotta go, I turn two years old tomorrow.

3 comments:

BG said...

Not smartest. I get that much. You can keep your angry urination.

Mytgod said...

Smartest baby that year, of course.

Drizztdj said...

I approve of this line and hope we can gather at least 10,000 hands of shorthanded poker data for our next meet.

Which should be held on a golf course sitting shotgun with the beer cart chick.