Assuming the Position

But my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine told me yesterday he saw on the news that a pregnant man was discovered, and so I’m thinking maybe I ought to get back to paying more attention to stuff outside the world of sports ’cause if one guy can get pregnant, I can only surmise that any guy can get knocked up and this can’t be good, what the fock.

Apparently, the facts are that some knob in Bend, Ore., has found himself to be with child, and I’m thinking Bend? Hold on, shouldn’t it be Bend-over ’cause how the hell else could a guy get himself into the physical position needed to make the conception conceivably conceivable? Hey, you tell me.

And then I’ll tell you that even if all of a sudden for some reason it’s possible for guys to get pregnant, I don’t think that personally I have any reason to get the heebie-jeebies. I’m pretty gosh darn certain I’m past my child-bearing years, knock on wood. Even if I get hit by a bus tomorrow and reincarnated as a woman the day after, I wouldn’t exactly be the belle of the ball, no sir. I look lousy in a dress and I don’t know the first thing about makeup. Cripes, my husband wouldn’t know if he should take me out to dinner or grab the leash and a pooper-scooper and take me out for a walk. But speaking of pregnancy, I’m reminded of a little story:

So this gal visited her doctor and received the wonderful news that she was pregnant. She’d been married 10 years and had wanted a baby very badly. As she sat on the bus on her way home, she felt she just had to share her good news with someone. So she turned to the gentleman next to her and told him how excited she was to learn that she was finally pregnant.

The kindly older man shared her enthusiasm and told her that years ago he had once been a farmer and had trouble with his hens laying eggs, year after year, but then one morning he went to the hen house and saw that all his hens had laid eggs. The woman said, “See? Miracles can happen.” And the former farmer said, “Indeed, but confidentially ma’am, the truth is I had switched cocks.” And the gal said, “Isn’t that something. Confidentially, I did, too.” Ba-ding!

And speaking of sports, I hear that the soon-to-be Summer Olympic Games over there in China is attracting all kind of hubbub what with that flaming torch making its way to and fro across the globe, which apparently reminds some of the Middle Kingdom’s lack of neighborliness toward Tibet. Which reminds me of a story, wouldn’t you know:

A Zen master from the Far East was visiting New York City. He approaches a hotdog street vendor and says, “Make me one with everything.” The vendor fixes a hotdog and hands it to the master, who pays with a $20 bill. The vendor puts the bill in the cash box and closes it. Time passes. “Where is my change?” the Zen master asks. And the hotdog vendor says, “Change must come from within.”

Yeah yeah, there’s all kind of talk about whether or not we ought to boycott these Olympics on account of how China is getting too big for their britches or whatever it is they wear over there these days, not to mention how much they pollute the air. Well sir, if we’re going to boycott somebody for polluting the air with crap that’s no good for us, how ’bout we begin at home and boycott the Focks News, ain’a?

But I’ll tell you, boycottschmoycott, I don’t spectate the Olympics and their bullshit amateurs, winter or summer, anyways. When it comes to athletic competition, taxidermy, auto repair or prostate surgery, I’m simpatico with exguv Eliot Spitzer and his love life—best leave it to the professional, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.