This post was originally published at http://blog.myspace.com/johnrichter_comedian
So this morning, we went to Heather's twice monthly doctor appointment. I like the prenatal appointments, because our doctor's name is pronounced "Dr. Faust" (for real). When we first met him, I was hoping he'd look at my wife's cervix, burst into maniacal laughter, and then cause a hellish cervical dilation that would open a gateway into an alternate dimension of pure chaos. Unfortunately, he's very professional.
His name does have some advantages. For example, although Dr. Faust and all the midwives at his practice are great, they do employ a bitchy, rude, mean-spirited assistant. She says sensitive things to Heather like, "Well, most women don't gain as much weight in their rear end as you have, but at least your breasts aren't as saggy as they're going to get." Since she works for Dr. Faust, I have given her the nickname "Mephistopheles". This is good news for all concerned, since under normal circumstances I would call her "Twatty Fuckwit McCunterface".
Anyway, this morning there was another couple in the waiting room. And I couldn't help but notice that the young man was wearing a T-shirt that said "Snatch: The Best Stuff On Earth" in giant, brightly-colored letters.
Now, regular readers know that I'm not easily offended (see: "Twatty Fuckwit McCunterface"), so it wasn't the language that bothered me. I just found it a little odd that this guy felt the need to advertise his fondness for snatch. Your wife's pregnant for fuck's sake! We know that you have at least a passing interest in poontang!
And to choose that shirt - out of all the possible items in his wardrobe - on a day when he knew he'd be sitting in a waiting room full of pregnant women seems a little crass, even by my standards. I have to assume that he agonized over the choice for hours, discarding shirts that said "Beaver Patrol", "Free Moustache Rides", and "Donkey Punch!" in favor of the more tasteful and aesthetically pleasing snatchware.
Anyway, everything that I've said so far is off-topic. Today's topic is: "Heather's Texas Baby Shower". (Note: although "texas baby shower" would be an excellent euphemism for sexual pee-play, this is not the sense in which the phrase is currently being used.)
As I mentioned earlier, Heather's mother arranged a baby shower for Heather in her home town of Katy, Texas, where every little girl hopes that when she grows up, she can work at the good Wal-Mart. Since we bought our charming and historic Denver home, Heather and I have no money, so we chose to drive down to Texas rather than fly.
It's an 18 hour drive, so we decided to get out the door as early as possible, thus naturally we didn't leave the house until noon. This is because when your final destination is Texas, suddenly there seem to be a lot of urgent household tasks that have to be addressed (ie "When was the last time we checked the ice cube maker for ghosts?").
But eventually we were on the road, and before we knew it we had hit Kansas. You can tell that you've crossed into Kansas, because all the businesses suddenly start cleverly spelling C-words with a K, as in: "Kansas Kountry Kitchen", "Karter's Krunchy Kandies" and "Ku Klux Kleaners".
I was remarking on this phenomenon to Heather as we pulled into a Stuckey's/gas station and noticed a semi with "Khristian Kountry Karriage" or something like that written on the side. As we walked into the little gas station shop, we both had a good laugh about these yokels' unintentional quasi-racist acronyms.
And then we saw what was for sale.
Did you know that they still sell black mammy figurines? Well they do in Kansas!
They also had a sign that said: "Wanted: Kitchen Slave". I'm not sure if they meant "Wanted" in the sense of "we're hiring" or "Wanted" in the sense that the sheriff was on the lookout for a negro attempting a daring escape to the north.
In any case, we sped on our way. One of the things that I love about the drive through Kansas is the endless array of entertaining signs. Most of them are your standard anti-abortion fare ("Abortion Stops a Beating Heart :(" / "Ma's Diner: Free Coffee if You've Shot an Abortionist" / "I Was Aborted, but I'm Still Saving Money on My Car Insurance, Thanks to Geico") but there are also occassional signs for other pet causes, like Intelligent Design ("Kraftily Kamouflaged Kreationism").
Since the famous Scopes Monkey Trial, Kansas has been a hotbed of evolution controversy and, if awkwardly verbose bumper stickers are any guide, the debate rages on. For those of you who haven't been following along, I'll present both sides of the debate briefly:
Evolutionist Perspective - At one time, Kirk Cameron (Kirk Kameron, Khristian) was ideally suited to the primetime television environment. But over time, new environmental pressures emerged, and Kirk Cameron found himself out-competed by more highly adapted creatures, such as Malcolm Jamal Warner, Urkel, and - to a lesser extent - Ashton Kutcher. Today, Kirk Kameron's Kareer is all but extinct.
Creationist Perspective - Kirk Cameron was personally called by Jesus Christ to make religious propaganda films that no one will see.
So the jury's still out!
But the thing I really love about central Kansas is the awesome roadside attractions. About an hour from the border, you start seeing signs for what seems to be a petting zoo ("Pet the baby pigs!"). At least at first...
After about an hour of signs, the claims begin to get a little weirder: "See the world's largest prairie dog!" "Two headed steer!" "Live 5-legged calf!"
(The "live" in the last one bothers me. It implies that the other animals, including the two headed steer and the baby pigs are not, in fact, alive. ["Pet the dead baby pigs!"] I hope that's not true, because I've driven by these signs about once a year for the last five years. If the world's largest prairie dog has been dead all that time, it's bound to be mighty ripe by now.)
The last sign, just a mile from the actual attraction, says "3000 lb prairie dog!" For years, I've rocketed by this mysterious claim at over 90 miles per hour. But soon I'll have a child. And that child will read the signs. And unless I stop, that child will shriek at the top of his or her lungs for the next 18 years. So I will stop. That's one way that parenthood changes you, I guess. You have to pet 3000 pound rotting prairie dogs.
As night fell, we crossed into Oklahoma (state song: "Ooooooo-my-god I need to get the fuck out of this state!"). And thus began the search for a motel.
I had hoped to stay in Oklahoma City, but apparently since they've had a major bombing they think they're a real city, and we couldn't find anything that cost less than a hundred bucks per night. So we drove on.
You know that part in the Blair Witch Project where the camera forbodingly lingers on their car for a moment as they walk off into the woods? That's what it was like as I watched the Oklahoma City Days Inn disappear in the rearview mirror.
After about an hour and half of driving, we arrived in a town with three major chain motels, all of them booked up (I assume there was some sort of clutching-your-genitals-while-watching-Blue-Kollar-Komedy convention in town). So I began to check out the other, off-brand motels. This was not an easy task, since I had been driving for 13 hours at this point, and my eyes had that "just-been-sand-papered" feel. After speeding away from two establishments that obviously wouldn't do (sign in window: "Your rapist tonight is Ted "), we ended up outside the Sands Motel.
It looked a lot better than everywhere we had visited so far. The outside was done in a pleasant black and white stucco pattern, and the lobby looked clean enough. We got a room. And for only $19! What a steal!
When we opened the door to the room, the whoosh of stagnant air revealed that "non-smoking room" actually means "to the best of our knowledge, there is no one smoking in there at this exact moment". Once our eyes adjusted, we couldn't help but notice that although the carpet was maroon in most places, there was a large patch right around the door that was gray. We also couldn't help but notice that this patch of carpet was shaped an awful lot like a human body.
But we were tired enough that we just wanted to get to bed, so we settled in. While I was brushing my teeth, I admired the workmanship on the bathtub. It seemed that someone had accidentally purchased a tub that was about a foot too short for the space in which it was installed. Undaunted, the intrepid plumber had filled in the entire empty space with caulk. This would be no mean feat under any circumstances, but it also seemed that the caulk had been delivered out of a high-pressure firehose, judging by the sharp points that had formed in the caulk and the grapefruit-sized caulk splatters that had hardened on every surface of the bathroom.
Needless to say, I was impressed.
Now - I don't like to get into the whole gender differences thing, but I think anyone would agree that women tend to be a little tidier than men. Am I right, guys?
So it's no wonder that my wife was the one who noticed the dozens of droplet-shaped bloodstains on the sheets.
Women! I mean, the bloodstains had totally dried!
And I wish I was joking, but I was so tired that I said "Don't worry, baby. I'll sleep on the bloodstained side." And I did.
In the morning, a number of heretofore unnoticed problems in the motel became clear. As I walked to the ice machine, I discovered that the charming black and white stucco I had seen the night before was actually white brick, encrusted with gobs of black filth so thick that they actually stood apart from the wall.
As I blearily walked back to the room, ice in hand, I noticed a cowboy entering all the rooms with some piece of equipment. I was alarmed at first, but then I noticed that he was also pushing a housekeeping cart, and calmed down. Then I noticed (I swear this is true) that the piece of equipment he was using to clean the rooms was a leaf blower. I became alarmed again.
Back in the room, Heather had made an interesting discovery. She had dropped something behind a piece of furniture, and had moved the furniture to retrieve it. My little junior detective noticed that although the carpet in the room was maroon, it was gray underneath every piece of furniture. After a little more investigation, it became clear why: The carpet was originally gray, and it had been painted maroon.
Again, I wish I was joking.
I really, really wanted to ask the manager some questions about the carpet painting, but I couldn't think of a polite way to do it. I considered saying something like "You know, I loved the carpet in our room, and I'm planning painting our carpets back home, and I was wondering what brand of paint you used," but I was afraid that they'd see through my little ruse, and the next thing I'd know I'm on my knees out back, leaf-blowing the cowboy as punishment for my insolence.
So I rejoiced a little when we arrived in Texas. Just a little.
Next Time: The baby shower
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