Men could never have babies. We couldn’t manage to do something that must feel like pushing a bowling ball out from between your legs. Maternity leave would be 17 months. There wouldn’t be any pain, though, I can guarantee that. Men would’ve invented a pill that didn’t harm the fetus, but made every minute of pregnancy glorious numb bliss. There would be competition to see who could gain the most weight to support the baby optimally without harming Dad or child.
There would never be any negative body image associated with postpartum dads, no catty comments from anyone about the baby ruining his body. “Baby Weight” would proudly morph into “Dad Weight”; beer companies would mass-produce competing magazines touting the best-tasting remedies for saggy-skinned bellies. Magazine covers and beer ads would feature glowing men feasting in their roundness and in the flawless forms of their wives, who purr at their sides, baby proudly on hip, eyes shining with adoration at their portly hubbies for giving them the incredible gift of that little squirming bundle of giggles. Men, women, and babies all would have supermodel faces; every proud waking drinking moment would be spent on the patio around the grill, with just the right number of beautiful friends and family, the weather always ideal.
All these niceties, conjecture and preamble lead up then to the obvious question that’s on everyone’s mind these days: Is Jessica Simpson fixin’ to give birth to a grand piano or what the F***?!
Speaking of pregnancy, one of Madonna’s few good ones, her best effort ever, I’d say: