But then it stopped -- and that's when *it* began. I could feel the rumbling and slushing of a chutnied liquid turning about. Then the terrible feeling like ten pounds of sphincter froth dropping down the dingy empty elevator shaft in my innards. By the time we got to the hospital, I was so nervous about the baby that my stomach was peptic. Everyone told me, "Oh, it's completely normal. Don't worry!" The contractions were still a while apart, so everyone wanted to come in and visit before they booted everybody out and got down to business.

When the grandmas came in, Mom said, "Well, isn't this a picture?" As everyone gathered around me, Mom reached for her camera to capture the party, and I let loose with some party favors of my own. Poo was coming out like gooey reams of butterscotch-colored silly string -- which, I suppose, was appropriate, in that we were celebrating new life; yet I think we all had something more sanitary in mind.

Everyone had disgusted looks on their faces, and the nurse told me she would be back with some towels, but I just wanted to leave. I was so humiliated I started to cry and told everyone to leave, that it wouldn't be a big deal if they weren't there, and that they had NO idea what I was going through. They reassured me, but then they were forced to eat their words (and the stench of my burnt offerings) as the sludge began to nudge.

With every moan and contraction I would grow nervous and lose concentration, allowing a stream of sharts that ran down my legs and into the memories of all unfortunate enough to attend.

It was a long night, but at last a baby arrived. At nine pounds and two ounces, he was about the same weight as his gooey twin that came out the other hole. But we were only taking one home that day.

In the end, it was all worth it. I was finally a father!