Back at around Christmas time, I got up from my nightly slumber and wandered in to the bathroom for my morning ritual of…well..it doesn’t matter.  But lets just say it involves a paint brush, dental floss, a copy of Hello magazine and some ginger nut biscuits.  After finishing my ritual, and being a little thirsty from it all, I noticed that my wife had left a glass of apple juice on the side of the sink.  “bloody marvellous!” I thought as I thought back to the time she watered down an expensive whisky of mine with coke.  Revenge is mine!  So I picked it up and took a nice big gulp.

It was piss.  And I don’t mean in the “Eww…cheap Apple Juice!” way.  It was literally a cup of my wife’s warmest urine.  I should have noticed by the way it was warm in the glass, but my blocked up nose also stopped the smell warning me before it touched my lips.

Acting as if I hadn’t just took a swig, I finished vomiting and called to my dear wife.  “Hunny…why do you have a glass of urine on the side?”

“I need to do a test” came the response.   Oh great.  So has she got some dodgy STD and I just put it in my mouth and in a few days time will find mushrooms growing out of my manhood?? was the first thing that came to my mind.  But no, in she wandered with a stick.  Unwrapped it, jabbed it in to the now half empty glass of urine.  About that time she said “You know, I swear there was more in there!” looking at me as I continued to scrape my tongue and stretch my jaw muscles in disgust.

Well shock bloody horror.  The test came up positive.  Of course, you knew that was coming so lets move on.  12 weeks later we went for a scan.

I would put up a copy of the scan we had, but you know, I can’t be bothered to, and you can’t be bothered to see it.  So  here is a dramatic representation of what we saw drawn by my own fair hand.  Yes, I am impressive.  Thanks for mentioning!

Good isn’t it.  I was going to use different colours and stuff, but I was also busy doing other stuff while I was writing this post.  It is called Dominos Pizza.  Food.  WAY more important than you will ever be to me.

Of course I didn’t mean that.  No…don’t cry.  I love you.  Really.  Sort of.  Fine.  Go away.  I lied when I said I loved you.  It was all about getting you in to bed.

So anyway.  I have concerns over the second coming of the fruit of my loins.  What if it is a girl?  Bear in mind that here is the contents of my house:

Wife – Female hormones

Daughter – Female hormones

Cat – Charlie – Female hormones

Cat – Danni – Female hormones

Cat – Yogi – Bloke.  Kind of.  Well…I think this image pretty much covers his intelligence level:

So if the growing sprog isn’t a boy…well…I will be looking to move in with some of you for some male hormone “grrr!  Baywatch!  Girls in bikinis” kind of action.

That…or I am gonna be sending the kid back.

On mentioning the option of sticking the new sprog back in straight after birth if it is the wrong colour, I was met with the following equation:

Her foot + My tackle = No more kid regardless now.

In unrelated news, I now speak in a very high pitched voice and have male breasts in the shape of my testicles.  Holy crap that girl kicks hard.

A few days back, I attended a funeral.  Not the first one I have been to…and being that I am still alive, certainly not the last one I will go to.  Every cloud and all that.

On the drive home, I did some reflecting (I was too busy listening to the music during the funeral to reflect then like I was supposed to).  And thought long and hard about something that was said during the service.  Thinking during the drive home made the most sense as my wife and child were in the car, it was pissing it down with rain, the car was aquaplaning all over the place, so it made sense to get lost in my thoughts and not pay any attention to the road while driving too fast.  Luckily we all made it home in one piece, although my underwear was a little on the stained side. 

Anyway.  What I was reflecting on during the drive was that in every funeral I have been to (not many…you know, I am not some serial funeral goer to..er or something weird) the same line was said.  And I wonder if it happens at every funeral.  The line was “…was loved by everyone”. 

OK, so I am not too sure if it is mentioned on death row or anything because I am quietly confident that the average serial killer is maybe not so loved by everybody.  But regardless…I had a thought about it and realised mine has to be different.  Maybe a few truths instead of the standard lines.  Not that the standard lines are lies…you know..before you think I am being horrible about the dearly departed amongst us. 

Instead of the “Sy was loved by everyone” line, I am thinking I could have:

Sy liked to wear socks when his feet were cold. 

He was also not overly loved all of the time. 

At times, his wife wanted to shove a mildly hot poker in a place that isn’t his mouth.  For those in the audience too stupid, we mean in his arse.  She found him annoying.  Selfish.  Arrogant.  A bit of a twat.  At times, he wished to flush one of his cats down the toilet when it cleaned it’s arse while sitting by his head…but never had an issue with using the cat to scratch his own arse.  He would eat his daughters yoghurt’s…but only the ones she really likes…because they are also the ones he really likes.  He would then tell his wife that she had eaten all 6 yoghurt’s that day.  Being a young child who couldn’t talk, she could not defend herself.  The world will be a better place without him.  Although cadburys may find that their profits go down because he ate so much chocolate. 

We wont miss the bitter idiot.

Fair?  I dunno.  If you don’t know me well…it’s all lies I tell you!  If you know me well…sod off.  You aren’t welcome around this post.

In unrelated news, I just had a large coffee.  Yeah I get that you didn’t need to know that.  I just like to share.  It is important in life.