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A Comedy of Terrors…

So…I get to write the final post of the month, during the last month of the year, last year of the decade, and the topic is “Season Finale”. Jesus, think I’m gonna slit my wrists. Do I need to sacrifice a virgin to some angry Mayan god before I get started? Honestly, the most important thing here is that I get the last word.

For about the last 15 years or so, I have tried to approach my life as if it were a sitcom. I like to handle any issues that come my way in 22 minutes or less, and I have a laugh track in my head that goes off whenever I say something funny (it goes off all the time, like just now…). I try to find humor in every situation, no matter how far from humorous it is.

Luckily, my life so far has been full of less than funny shit that I can make funny, at least in the retelling, if not in the initial happening. I can trace a definite downward spiral of events since I graduated from High School 15 years ago, mainly a gradually deepening series of annoyances and aggravations, some life altering, some simply attitude adjusting, but all of which that have led to my own caustic sense of humor and outlook on things. It has also left me with a crippling fear of inconvenience and and a deep seated hatred of change. Not the jingly change, the making-things-differenty change.

Just in the last few years, I’ve been laid off, spent over a year on unemployment, started and destroyed my very own failure of a small business, went through an IRS audit that almost killed my liver and had me repaying $40K in business deductions, destroyed my credit to the point where I pay cash for everything, bought a little house that I can’t afford which I almost lost less than a year and a half later to foreclosure, done all types of odd labor to make money, and settled for a blue collar hell job that I hate. Those were the more “season ending cliffhanger” moments, but just from episode to episode I can recount tons of funny stories, like the time I was mistaken for a burglar in a wealthy neighborhood and detained because I drive a van (one of the cops actually said “How could you NOT be a burglar? You drive a van full of boxes…” I shit you not.).  Then there’s the time I woke up in the hospital after a night of partying out of town and had no recollection how I got there…Or the time my next door neighbor knocked on my door to tell me had had bombs in his house…Or the time my van broke down and rolled to a stop in front of the driveway to a local high end event location that just happened to be holding a wedding that day (rich people can be quite cruel when you inconvenience them.)…Or the time I got thrown out of an Asian whorehouse because…You know what, I’ll stop there.

That is just since 2002 or so, if we go back further….Fuck it, let’s not go back further. I’m already depressed.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not trying to make all of this out to be more than it is. We all have our ball and chain, our crosses to bear. Our lives are what we make of them, and I can’t complain too much.  I have made it through only partially scathed, and I know many people that have had things waaayyy worse than I have, problems with drug or alcohol addiction, depression, suicide, chronic illness, run-ins with the law. But, I also have quite a few friends that like to call me and catch up, just so they can feel better about how uneventful their own lives are. And, in the end, it gives me a lot to talk about, a lot of episodes in the sitcom of my life.

Now, what do we call this sitcom? I’ve been thinking hard on this one, how about…..Everybody Fucks Wrecked-Um. It will probably have to run on Showtime, what with all the full frontal nudity, violence and language.

I told you all of that to build up to the current season’s finale. It seems that the last few years in my shitty job have caused us to lose some of the show’s core fans, and the ratings have dropped a bit. The network is resorting to a tried and true “jump the shark” event to draw audiences back in. It’s been a secret to most of the fan base for the last 20 weeks or so, with only certain show insiders getting the scoop…

My wife is pregnant. Soon, we’ll be hearing the pitter patter of a foul-mouthed little Wrecked-Um farting around the house. And…I am scared fucking shitless. I can’t handle my own fucking life, but I can make another one. There really should be some legislation…

PLEASE, god, no empty congratulations. I didn’t do anything to deserve the accolades other than ensure that my life as I know it is about to horribly change. Making a baby is only hard when you WANT ONE. When you don’t want one, (or maybe aren’t ready just yet to make one) it’s easier than dry humping a pillow into submission, which to be honest, might have been what I thought I was doing at the time…Minus the “dry” adjective.

Which leads me to my next point, mainly for the men reading this.

Guys, when that special someone, be it a wife, girlfriend, friend with benefits, slam piece, one-night-stand, barfly,  regular Saturday night thing, random hooker, or attractive drunken cousin, comes to you, and says “Honey, I’m pregnant…” or “dude, you should’ve used a different rubber the second time” or “I told you this would happen if you did it in my front-butt” or maybe “way to come in me, asshole”….You should consider….How to phrase this?…just giving her a quick shove down a good, long flight of stairs. A straight flight, too, no turns or landings. And do it right away, because if you wait until she’s more pregnanter, I think the penalties are way worse. Yeah, you could spend a year or two in jail for assault, but compared to the 9 months of mental and emotional HELL your knockupee is about to put you through, a good jailhouse gang rape is much more honest, straightforward, and less emotionally destructive.

Before you all get offended and send nasty comments, let me state for the record, that I am not, in any way, advocating violence against women. Only the pregnant ones, and only if you are personally responsible for said bun in said oven. And only right away, like a knee jerk reflex…Anything later would look premeditated. And even then, I’m not telling anyone to actually DO this…..I’m just saying, keep your options open. Just sayin’.

And yes, I know how that sounds. When thoughts like that, thoughts like pushing a pregnant woman down a flight of stairs, come into my head, I, too, take a pause, and think to myself that, deep down, inside, I am really just an awful, horrible person.

But I also know that I am not the first man to consider this.

I recently mentioned this idea a buddy of mine, and his reply was, “Oh yeah, that is why I just bought a 2 story house,” He previously lived in a rancher, “I even keep a basket of laundry by the top of the stairs , to toss down after her. She is pretty clumsy to begin with, so it adds to the believability.” Sigh….I’m not alone in the world.

Another friend from work offered some advice when I approached him with the idea…”Pf, yeah man, bitches be doing that shit…” Oh, this friend is black, so I’m not making fun of him, I’m quoting him word for word. “…you’ll see em’ layin’ there, sleepin’, and you’ll wanna punch ’em in their fuckin’ heads for some shit they put’cha through, but boy, when that baby come out, it’ll all be worf it.”

This seems to be a popular bit of advice from friends of mine that have children. They say that my whole life, outlook and attitude will change when I see this new baby something. To them, I have asked, “Really? Will I still be an asshole?” And while the answer has been a resounding “YES” from all parties, the general consensus is that I will be a much more direct and purposed asshole, an asshole with meaning in my life. A “Capable Wrecked-Um”, perhaps?

Another friend at work had this to offer…”Whooooo, yeah! You think you’re miserable NOW, you think you hate this place NOW…..? Man, I can’t WAIT to see you in a year, when you gotta come in for overtime just to pay for diapers and shit!! THEN YOU’LL BE MISERABLE, MOTHERFUCKER!! You’ll be coming in here just to escape the crying, and the bitching, and the WAAA WAAAA WAAAAA….Hot damn I’m gonna laugh in your face you miserable prick!…” He even did a little dance to go with that rant. I guess misery does love company.

One fool acquaintance of mine (who doesn’t have kids) threw this one at me…”Dude, what about all those cats? You have always taken care of your cats, just draw on that when you raise this kid.” Yeah, that’s a good idea, idiot. Just this weekend, I just yanked 18 inches of waxed, shit covered dental floss out of my cats ass. So, when my kid chows down on a tasty tangle of minty used dental floss, I’ll have that experience…Fuck it, I’ll shoot them.  I’ll say it right now, if I have a kid that is dumb enough to eat and poop out dental floss, I’ll fucking shoot them. It will be a favor to us both.

Until that time comes, I live in abject fear of the unknown. Afraid of fucking up someone else’s life other than my own. I really haven’t been dealing with it well, and I have been having a very hard time keeping to myself just how hard this whole fucking pregnancy thing is for me. Sure, I guess it is tough for my wife, too, but she isn’t fucking writing this, I am.

So, as of the 31st, when this goes live, Mrs. Wrecked-Um and I are at the 20th week. Halfway point. And my wife is a fucking emotional pipe bomb that fire off rounds of completely irrational, conversational insanity without warning. One minute she’s fine, the next minute she’s crying, the next minute she’s angry about something I did or said at some point in the last five minutes or maybe last week, then she’s crying again and apologizing for snapping at me, then angry again because why should she apologize? She’s pregnant! Then crying because she’s pregnant and hormonal, then she’s mad at me for agreeing with her, because I shouldn’t disregard her emotions just because she’s hormonal, it discounts her feelings…For fuck’s sake, I have never been so wrong so goddamn often in my life.

Add to that my own lack of….Well, I kid of have this disconnect between my brain and my mouth. Not so much a disconnect, more of an OVERconnect…See, I have a very hard time stopping myself from saying the first thing that comes into my head. Some people say I don’t have a filter…or a conscience…or shame. One of those, or all of them, it doesn’t matter. I speak my mind, and sometimes I shouldn’t. I’m sure that is a surprise.

My initial reactions to many of her basic questions have led to some confrontational moments…

“Wrecky, honey…” she calls me Wrecky…”Do you have any names in mind?”

“Whoa, we’re not naming this thing. If you give it a name, we’ll never get rid of it.”

“What do you mean, get rid of it?”

“Sweety, have you SEEN what white babies go for on the internet? THOUSANDS…Assuming it is a white baby. It IS gonna be white, right?”

“Yes, it will be white.”

“Great, we can pay off all our debts, buy a nice new TV, and fuck, we can always make another one later…White babies are a completely renewable resource! If we could just make SUV’s that run on white babies, forget planting all that corn…”

You know, I’ll cut that one off right there. Running automobiles on white babies is really more of a topic for “Green Ethics” if it gets revisited in the future.

Then there is the nursery debate…

“Wrecky, we’ll have to turn the guest bedroom, you know, the one with all YOUR stuff in it, into a nursery, so you’ll have to throw out all YOUR stuff to make room for the babies things…”

My less-than-well-thought-out reply…

“Fuck that! This kid’s gonna live out in the back yard like a ghetto Pit Bull. I’ll get a stake and a chain…”

After a while, conversations like these started to wear on my wife. We were fighting often, much more so than we normally would, and her mood was getting progressively worse. She basically had 2 modes…Miserable bitch, and sleeping miserable bitch. She was constantly nauseous, missed some work, and she spent a lot of time moping around the house. So, being the supportive hubby that I be, I did my best to avoid her, avoid conversation and the inevitable confrontations, ignore her outbursts, and figured that was the best way to handle the situation.

That is, until one afternoon about a month or so ago, when she came home from work and crawled into bed with me. I work the graveyard shift, 11 pm to 7 am, so I need to sleep in the afternoon. It was about 5pm, I had been asleep for a couple hours, and had to be up to get ready for work at 9pm. I am a really light sleeper, so just the sound of her opening the door tends to bring me to at least half-consciousness. After a few minutes, I hear sobbing coming from her side of the bed.

“Hon?” I sleepily drool out.

(through sobs) “Yeah…?”

“What’s wrong?”

(still sobbing, with a sniffle this time…) “Nothing…”

“OK, good night…” and I quickly rolled over hoping that would be the end of it…

“I miss my husband…” she sighs out.

“What?” Being half asleep, I totally didn’t see that coming.

“I miss my husband.” Same sentence, a little firmer.

I gurgled the sleep away for just long enough to blurt out “Well, could you give him a call, I’m trying to fucking sleep here…”

“I mean it. You’ve been distant and avoiding me lately….I don’t like being avoided.”

“Well, every time I say something, it’s wrong, and we get into a fight…So I was doing nothing.” I was doing a piss poor job of diffusing the situation, but like I keep saying, she totally ambushed me while I was sleeping. I had even less control than I usually do.

She was really crying now, and getting louder…

“I can’t do this alone! I need you for support, you can’t just do nothing, you have to acknowledge me, don’t just avoid me because you’re afraid we’re gonna fight or something!…”

I was pretty conscious now, but short on patience…”OK, What should I do? You wanna talk about something?”

“Well, nothing right now…just that we’re not talking.”

“You want to talk…about not talking?”

“Don’t do that! Don’t make fun of me!” This sounds so awful when it is said through tears. “I just want to know you’re with me…”

“I’m here, I’m here…Is it the baby’s room thing? I don’t really expect it to live out in the back yard, I was just joking…”

“No,it isn’t that. You really can’t do anything about the baby’s room until we know the sex of the baby…”

“Alright, should I…Make you something to eat? Are you hungry?”

“No, I’m not hungry, and besides you’re sleeping…Oh god, I am so sorry, I’m keeping you awake aren’t I?!” And a renewed volley of tears and sobbing ring out…”I’m sorry I’m being so insecure and crazy…I’m just so worried about everything, I don’t know if I will be a good mother…and we never have any money, so I worry about providing for the baby…”

“Sweety, you’ll be a wonderful mother. Don’t worry about all this, it is just the hormones running wild…”

“Don’t disregard my feelings like that! Just because I’m hormonal doesn’t mean my feelings don’t count!”


“I didn’t say your fucking feelings… Look, what would you like me to say? What do you wanna hear? What do you want me to do?’

“Well…nothing right now.”

“Nothing?” Don’t get mad, Wrecked-Um…..

“Yeah, there’s nothing you can do about anything…”

And she looked at me with those sad eyes…And I exploded.

“I was fucking doing NOTHING before you came in here to wake me the fuck up and tell me that was fucking WRONG!! “


….And it went back and forth for another half hour before I got to go back to bed. But, it was all good. I decided to amend my plan and be more engaging. I was already picking up even more of the housework…

By the way, this whole “Pregnant women can’t clean the cat litter box” thing is total fucking bullshit, seriously. It’s a fucking conspiracy. I have 6 fucking cats, with 7 fucking litter boxes. They are all Persians, and at an given time at least two of them have diarrhea. Persian fur soaks up shit like a sponge, and then the litter sticks to it, and what the fuck is a Toxoplasmosis anyway? It sounds like a shitty hair metal band from the 80’s…..

OK, got that out. Whew. So, I had amended my plan to be more friendly and engaging, but still try to diffuse things by NOT saying what was on my mind. Have a conversation, without saying what I am thinking. I would tend to her needs without really saying what I mean, or meaning what I say. Oh boy.

A few days after that last debacle, we were sitting on the couch, conversing. She was sleepy and a bit depressed, so I tried to joke with her by making lewd comments. They always cheer her up. She tells me she is having a “Low self esteem day.” I assumed it was something she read about in a women’s magazine and took it as a hint to not say anything stupid.

She had to go to the basement to do her laundry, and I sat on the couch and marveled at myself for being such a good husband and doing everything she had asked.

Then she came sobbing up the stairs…

“Sweety, is there something wrong?” I ask, full of caring and a willingness to help.

She replied, “When I told you was having a low self esteem day, it was so you would compliment me. I was fishing for a compliment. I wanted you to say something to make me feel better, all I got was ‘do you want me to take you upstairs and sex you up’. That isn’t what I need to hear right now…”

“But I said that because I thought you looked hot, all depressed and sleepy…”

“You…just…don’t…get it…” she sobbed.

…And this was another breakthrough moment. For me, anyway. Because I realized that she’s right. I don’t get it. I CAN’T get it. But I see what I need to do…I can’t just not say what I’m thinking. I can’t just be supportive and engaging. I have to completely suppress every urge, every instinct, every fiber of my being that doesn’t, in some way, understand what it is like to be a completely insane pregnant woman. So, I have to stop being a man. And that is impossible. Which basically means I’ll never get it.

She kept looking at me, expecting me to finally say something, some sweet and loving compliment that would make her feel better…And I had nothing. I tried, but this new realization that I would never get it was just too strong, and it filled my head with the incredible lack of possibilities. The only thing I could come up with was “Gee, honey, you sure are good at this whole bat-shit crazy thing, ain’t ‘cha?” But I didn’t say it. Nope. Instead, I said “Well, this day just took a 180. I’m gonna go scoop out the litter boxes.”

That is where this season ends, for now. My wife sobbing and me scooping cat shit with a little plastic shovel. Let those ratings soar.


Oh shit, I forgot. I have the last word.

The last word on 30POV for the month, the year, and the decade. (Comments don’t count, Poop.)

The last word is…Penis. Yes, Penis. Don’t deny it, amplify it. Penis.

Without one of those, none of us would be here. I certainly would not have been able to write all this without my penis to help make the impending bundle of crippling financial burden that I will call daughter or son…

So, appreciate a penis today, be it yours, or someone else’s. And if you’re not into penises…Wake up! Fake it if you have to. I’m sure at some point a penis faked being into you…

So, yeah. Penis. Penis. Penis.


43 responses to “A Comedy of Terrors…”

  1. Avatar GoD says:

    I want to work 7am to 11pm and wake up at 5pm. Good shit!! Can I play the Costanza character in your show? You need to shop this concept to BET or Lifetime!!!

  2. Avatar notpicard says:

    Try turning the tables. Next time she turns down sex as a compliment you should cry because it was your hormones talking. Then ask again if she wants it. If she turns it down, snap at her for calling you unattractive. If she accepts, get pissed because she isn't taking your "real" feelings seriously and you are not just a piece of meat. Either way, cry and apologize. Then snap at her again. And repeat until she is more confused than you are.
    But don't forget to get it at some point too.

  3. Avatar tee says:

    What a great way to end 2009… I curl up with 30pov.com and my coffee every morning – and well, that just made me giggle to the bottom of my feet every minute of every day… I can't help it – it was hilarious..
    btw – PENIS.

  4. I'll refrain from the obvious "How the fuck are you married at all!?" comments.
    Fact: You look more like a burglar than most burglars and "Slam piece" has now been added to my 2010 lexicon.
    And congratulations for writing the first post on here to make me snort numerous times. Thanks for sharing the inner thoughts – or, I guess, not so much *inner* – of that cesspool you call a heart.
    I'll now be forwarding this to your wife…

    • Avatar WreckedUm says:

      Only "slam piece"? What about "front butt"?
      Mrs. Wrecked-Um was forewarned and has decided to refrain from reading this month. She was embarrassed enough just reading last month's and she wasn't even in it.

  5. Avatar inferno says:

    I've always been partial to "back bacon" when talking about a woman used solely as a parking space for my penis.
    Now lets just your kid doesn't turn out to be the next unibomber.

  6. Avatar Justin says:

    I've gone through this twice…couldn't you have brought up the whole stair idea like 4 1/2 years ago?

  7. Avatar Roger says:

    Having been a cast member in at least a few of your "episodes" this does feel like an appropriate season finale. Showtime is certainly the place for your show, though I could see it on FX. Funny with a tinge of tragedy. By comparison my sitcom would probably be on the CW, stupid, but not quite funny.

    • Avatar WreckedUm says:

      I could be the second graduate of St. Joe's Prep with a show on FX. I could upgrade you to a more used cast member if you weren't so damn far away. We need a guy that used to play with titties for a living.

  8. Avatar wraith says:

    Best show EVER!

  9. Avatar VIPER109 says:

    Apparently a blog that advocates pushing a pregnant woman down the stars cant handle a polite suggestion that the author put a bullet in his fucking head. That must be over the top. Seeing as my comment was removed in like five minutes. So, I’ll ratchet it down a bit and suggest that he take a mallet to his testicles. You know those little things in the hairy sack under you penis. Just move your gut out of the way you’ll see them. Like I was saying, take a mallet to them until they have the consistency of apple sauce.
    But other than that I really enjoy reading about your sad little life. Keep up the good work.

  10. Avatar llxt says:

    i know you probably wrote {most of} this tongue-in-cheek, but i really want to acknowledge that you did some valuable sharing here, wrecked um. and 30POV, its readers, and ESPECIALLY its editor Thank You.
    btw, my favorite line is "Sure, I guess it is tough for my wife, too, but she isn’t fucking writing this, I am." Hells Yeah.

  11. Avatar TheChris says:

    911 – "911, this is Mary, whats the emergency?"
    WreckedUm – "uh, hi.. my wife um.. fell.. down the stairs while doing laundry and shes not moving!"
    911 – " *sigh* Sir, is your wife pregnant?"
    WreckedUm – "…yes, how did you know?"
    911 – "Sir, so by fell down the stairs you mean "fell" correct?"
    WreckedUm – "What is that supose to mean?"
    911 – "I am just trying to figure out if I should notify the paramedics or police"
    WreckedUm- "are you trying to insinuate that i pushed her?!?"
    911 – " *sigh* Is the basket of clothes under her or on top of her, sir?
    WreckedUm "well if she fell carrying it down the stairs the correct answer would be under her right?… right?!"
    911 – "yes sir, would you like to hang up and call me back in 5 minutes?"
    The moral of the story….plan ahead…. premeditated is the way to go.

  12. Avatar Joe Blowme says:

    The whole "push the pregnant woman down the stairs and she won't be pregnant anymore" thing is over-rated. Seriously, those kids are pretty well padded in there early on. It won't work. Do it later and you will be going to jail.
    Now I know this is not what you want to hear. The fact that you have 6 fucking cats is clear that you are one of those freakish cat-obsessed people. But if you want life to not be so fucked up when you have your baby, which IS more important, get rid of some fucking cats. Less cats means less litter and food to buy. Less vet bills. Less work cleaning litter boxes. Less work pulling shit out of their asses. Seriously, a MINIMUM of 4 cats have to go. Keep the 2 you like best and send the others packing. Don't give me that shit about you don't have a favorite, yes you do. You are going to need the time and money those cats are sucking out of you for that baby.
    Oh and you are going to hate that baby for at least the first couple of months. Eat, shit, cry and sometimes sleep is all they do. But a reward will come eventually in the form of a smile. Or a fart that looked like a smile. And that is when you realize that this shit just might be worth it.
    Don't forget to get rid of some fucking cats. And any other animals you might have. No, not your wife. You are going to need her.

    • Avatar WreckedUm says:

      Sorry "Blowme", the cats came first, and they are stayin'. The kid can learn to use the litter box. And the dog? the wife would leave with the baby if the dog goes.

      • Avatar Joe Blowme says:

        Fast forward 40 years or so…
        Elderly WreckedUm – "Son/daughter, could you please wipe my ass? I can't do it anymore"
        Grown child – "Screw you! I had to shit in a litter box, you can too!"
        Elderly WreckedUm – "Kitty, can you wipe my ass?"
        Kitty has no response because is Kitty is fucking dead by now. But if you could get a cat to wipe your ass, that would be awesome. So yeah, money is really tight, baby on the way, but cats stay. Sure, makes sense. Your house wouldn't by chance have wheels on it, would it? Just askin'.

  13. Avatar KFrayz says:

    IF the world is ever cruel enough to place life in my body…after reading this post, I will throw MYSELF down the stairs…

  14. Avatar Mike says:

    Hope you like the smell of cat shit. She's gonna want more kids just so she doesn't have to deal with that anymore…

  15. Avatar Matthew says:

    Never know what to expect from you wrecked-um.

  16. Avatar WreckedUm says:

    We had the halfway Ultrasound today…it's a girl!

  17. […] whatever the topic, I was going to write an excoriating response to Wrecked-Um’s December 31 post (”The Incapable Wrecked-Um”) wherein he expresses so extreme a disgust for his pregnant […]

  18. Avatar Clawgut says:

    Ya, i'm a show insider! And one who was there the morning after you woke up out of town in the hospital! And yeah, i'm late to this fuckin' party…but..Wreck'dum, my friend, writing is cathartic, at least my counselor says so (and yes, i'm in fucking councelling these days, your life isn't the only one all fucked up you know. ;^) ) so i'm glad to see you getting this off your chest and making it one fuck of a good read while you're at it. Just remember, there are those who think fondly of you (no, not thinking of fondling you) and we'll be there to support you in whatever way we can…

  19. […] to the current state of the collecting union in my house. One word: BABY. Yes, if you’re been following my work here on 30POV, then you know, we had a little Wrecked-um about three and a half months ago. […]

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The Incapable Wrecked-Um About The Incapable Wrecked-Um

Recipe for The Incapable Wrecked-Um: One full Angry Irish Aries 1/2 shot Cynical Apathy 1/2 shot Combative Mediocrity 1/2 bottle Jameson® Irish whiskey Sit Angry Irish Aries on couch. Crush his spirit with Combative Mediocrity and Cynical Apathy. Pour 1/2 bottle Jameson down his throat. Repeatedly kick in groin until surly, but malleable. If he cries, kick him until he stops.

Read more by this author on 30POV .


December 2009
Season Finale
November 2009
{Seven Deadly} Sins
October 2009
Mischief Making
September 2009
Green Ethics
August 2009