April 27, 2009

There’s a good chance that if you do it enough times and with an opposite gender, you’re going to have a baby. Maybe even several. If you want to up the chances, try one of the following: Drink a few extra Jell-O shots with the rugby team. Buy condoms from a vending machine in the bathroom of a last-chance gas station out in West Texas. Promise to “pull” at the last second. Pray desperately that you don’t have to give birth to the spawn of that loser you picked up at Tangerine’s last night. If none of that works, you might try joining the Catholic Church, moving into a mobile home, or spending your teen years in rural Oklahoma. There’s no hard and fast rule for getting pregnant. Sometimes you can go soft and slow. Sometimes you can get knocked up from behind. You can also get preggers by “making the beast with two backs,” “squashing the deckchair,” “spooning,” or “playing the cello.” Equally effective are the Reverse Asian Cowgirl, the Italian Chandelier, the Thigh Master, the Octopus, and the Piledriver. If all that seems like too much work, you can always get a box of cheap wine and a turkey baster. Surprisingly, the result of all this sordid behavior is often referred to as a “miracle” – at least until the paternity test comes back – and it is, really. Who could believe that doing the work of the devil could produce a little angel? And who could imagine the hell it would put you through? What else could pee in your eye and get away with it? What else could projectile vomit into your breakfast cereal, scream at you all night, and make you wipe its ass several thousand times? Is that not proof of a miracle? Sure, your Sunday football buddies might giggle when they fart or burp obnoxiously, but they don’t sit there bawling in a putrid funk after they drop a load waiting for you to take care of the problem. As the extended stay motel incident in Waco proves, even really smelly farts can seem sufficient justification for stabbing someone in the chest. Imagine if the victim had been screaming petulantly in a pool of diarrhea? Mopping up an acrid blown out diaper at 4 in the morning is just about as close to unconditional love as you can get – well, unless you’re Jesus or something. This is not to say that in those dark hours you might not fantasize about crucifixion, but you’d never actually do it. Why? 1) You’re not God, and 2) if you can’t even bring yourself to shake a baby, there’s no way you’re going to love it enough to nail it to a cross, even by proxy. So yes, children are bona fide miracles, each and every one. Sadly though, the older they get, the less miraculous they seem – especially when they’re dirty, grizzled, and holding up a cardboard sign at a freeway intersection. With any luck however, the fruit of your loins will at least do something interesting and entertaining – perhaps it will make you beam with pride and say something sentimental like, “Not bad for a little fuck stain!” Ah, the joys of parenthood. This weekend a whole bushel of entertaining loin fruit will be playing at the Next Up U18 Austin Music Showcase at Threadgill’s World Headquarters. Next Up is a showcase for up-and-coming bands and artists in Austin who are younger than 20 years old, though most are squarely in their teens. This weekend’s show benefits the Palmer Drug Abuse Program, an support group for teenagers struggling with chemical dependency. For a mere $5, you can see the El Guapos, Chief Rival, AfterMath, the Aviators, Edison Chair, and the Diving Captain. You might even help save a few miracles.