Z Blog: You wanna see a real slob … ? | VailDaily.com
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Z Blog: You wanna see a real slob … ?

Matt Zalaznick

Along with the nausea, the constant napping and the overactive appetite, another symptom of pregnancy, unfortunately, is letting yourself go a little bit.

What I mean is even the daintiest of women might let fly with a gentle burp in public. Even the most well-mannered wives will start scarfing at the dinner table. Our beloved soulmates will even stoop to borrowing that hideous, nacho-stained Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt they threatened to throw out during the last round of spring cleaning.

This is the reason we should all be thankful that men don’t get pregnant. If women feel free to start acting a bit boorish, can you imagine the atrocities of slobbery men would commit if we had license to abandon what little decorum we still have? Women would be begging us to burp in public.

If men found themselves in the family way, the first two things we’d no longer have any use for would be pants and utensils. We use them grudgingly, anyway.

You think those threadbare rock concert T-shirts are bad? I’ve got one word for you: toga. We men would wear nothing but togas from the instant the pregnancy test flashed positive to the day … well … uhm … maybe for the rest of our lives. We’d probably quit our jobs and not go back to work until we found employment in a toga-friendly workplace, if not in an actual toga factory.

And you call us messy eaters now. You complain about the Cheetos and dried of flecks of taco meat between the couch pillows. You nag us about leaving the ham out on the counter for three hours as we feed off it during Monday Night Football.

Well, picture this: Husband. In toga. Huddled In the corner. Chewing T-bone. Down to the marrow. With the dog. Who has its own T-bone. Husband fights dog for T-bone. Husband wriggles out of toga. Husband and dog agree to share T-bone. We split the gristle 50-50. Barbecue-sauce stains on the blinds and on the rug and on the ceiling.

And housework? Holy cow. We barely do any now. In fact, we’d probably work hard to turn the place into some comfortable and hideous sty reaking of sweaty male paternity and the dense odor of hot dogs. We’d need all the essentials within hand’s reach, if not closer ” say, resting on our plump bellies.

And I mean all the essentials ” pizza-delivery menu, all seven remote controls, roll of paper towels we won’t actually use and ranch dressing for the wings.

At least there wouldn’t be dirty underwear all the over the place. We won’t be wearing underwear. Togas, remember?

Apparently, koala bears sleep something like 20 hours a day. We might not quite sleep 20 hours, but we’d spend all 24 hours in a semi-comatose state of watching hockey highlights on ESPN, slurping beef jerky out of the bag like an anteater sucking ants out of an anthill, and pouring soda all over ourselves in an attempt to get the caffeine rush without actually drinking the stuff.

Soda pop’s supposed to be bad for the baby, after all. C’mon, we men aren’t animals.

Vail, Colorado


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