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The Spoooooooooooooky Issue


So my second son, Christopher James Nieratko III, was born on August 10, 2011

Dir: Belladonna
Rating: 10 So my second son, Christopher James Nieratko III, was born on August 10, 2011, and I have already tried to kill him. By accident, naturally. When it comes to parenting I have a steadfast rule: READ NO PARENTING BOOKS. I figure if Polacks and Cro-Mags figured it out without manuals, then I’ll be fine. Also I’m working on a parenting book (please read it!) and I don’t want my thoughts tainted by something written by some Vulcan in the 1940s. I suppose in this isolated incident of nearly murdering my newborn it might have been somewhat useful to have read a book or two on parenting so I would’ve known that a newborn baby shouldn’t be flying the first week it’s alive. What happened was my wife pushed our first kid out in seven minutes (she is badass), and until recently that was the shortest birthing video ever made. But she wanted to break her old record with our second kid and so she squoze him out with only four pushes. I think it took her, like, four minutes tops. It may sound like the little guy just walked right out of her vagina, but truth is, there’s nothing casual about nearly ten pounds of anything coming out of a hole that small. As the thoughtful husband and dad of the year I am, I decided to be spontaneASS and buy my wife and kids a vacation in Miami right after the kid was born. I was going to be on a skateboard road trip ending in South Beach, and I thought I would fly her and the boys down to relax in the sun. She’d earned it. I dealt with the details I thought most important: flights, hotels, car, tickets to Monday Night Football (Dolphins vs. Patriots. I hate both those teams, I just wanted to go to see if somehow they would both lose. Go Jets!) My wife deals with the other stuff, like asking the doctors if putting a newborn in a pool will kill it. Seems that a public hotel pool and an airplane, with all their germs, are a near-death sentence for a freshie with no immune system, or at the very least a guaranteed visit to the hospital. So I ate the tickets. What could I do? I have a different approach to parenting. Last year I was on a talk show called The Daily Habit that was once about skateboarding but has now turned into this weird Bill Maher/open-mic-night program. They asked me, Wayne Brady, and a Playmate to comment on zany photos, one of which was a child restraint shaped like a crucifix. Wayne Brady and the Playmate were appalled by the device. I took the opposite stance: I told them I loved it and that my wife and I were always looking for new, safer child restraints after finding out the hard way that our old restraint, a clear plastic bag, shouldn’t go over the baby’s head. We did four takes. Each time I got more graphic with my dead-baby joke. Finally, they said, “Chris, please stop. We can’t do dead-baby jokes.” “Why not?” I asked. “Dead-baby jokes are timeless.” I believe there’s a statistic that says that for every baby born there are two people who want to kill it at some point in its life. More stupid can be found at