If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a (placenta) cake

Okay, I’m on board with the romantic notion that childbirth can be a beautiful expression of love—or, at least, a beautiful expression of I-don’t-think-I-can-get-pregnant-because-I’m-on-my-period passion at its very best.

In my more gentle moments, I’ll even acknowledge that babies aren’t wholly repugnant. The constant geyser of shit is no great treat, really, and the incessant wailing in the middle of the night is at best selfish and at worst pretty fucking annoying—but at least infants aren’t old enough yet to demolish the family car or dip into your stash of Captain Morgan. We call this a silver lining, folks.

I can almost understand why people would celebrate the birth with cigars and such. If friends and family are expected to coo and gush over even the ugliest of babies (and there are plenty out there), the parents pretty much owe the cooers and gushers a smoke break to recover. At least this affords the opportunity to vent, “Jesus, that kid looks like it came from a blender,” or, "I can't believe the baby already has his Mom's fat ass," without hurting anyone’s feelings.

What seems to me to be a bit of overkill, though—and I’m guessing I’m not alone in this sentiment—is getting all whoot-whoot excited about the afterbirth.

You’ve got the baby. You’ve got the torn-up, stretched-out vagina. You can cut way back on your milk budget. You have a convenient excuse to avoid future sex. Congratulations. You’ve done well. So why hold on to the leftovers?

It would seem that placentas have moved out of the delivery room and into the mainstream. How could we not all be excited?

Stressing about fine lines and pores on your face? Get a placenta facial. Battling split ends? Pick up a bottle of placenta conditioner. Need something to fill that span of bare wall over the mantelpiece? How about hanging a limited edition placenta print?

Or, if you’re struggling to come up with a quick, no-fuss weekday meal, why not dig into the treasure trove of placenta recipes on the Web?

You need not look far to learn how to whip up everything from a hearty placenta stew to a spicy placenta sausage-garlic-and-fennel pizza. I’m a pepperoni man myself. Call me closed-minded, but I’ll go on record as saying that anyone who brings placenta-anything as an appetizer to my parties won’t be asked back. My apologies in advance.

My favorite new entry in the placenta market, though, is the latest in “sustainable toy designs”—the Placenta Teddy Bear. Designer Alex Green—who I’m guessing is pretty creepy—cut a human placenta in half, cured it with sea salt, treated it with an emulsifying blend of tannin and egg yolk, and then stitched it around some stuffing. Voila! The most disgusting gift you could ever give!

To the end of my days, I will never think of "sex toys" the same way again. A shame, really.

"The Very Best in Robot Sex"

At the Adult Entertainment Expo in Las Vegas this past weekend, the many guests (most of whom, I would wager, would not be welcome in our home) were introduced to Roxxxy, a full-size, lingerie-clad and anatomically correct robotic “girlfriend” with a connected laptop that enables “her” to respond to simple conversation through an internal speaker.

For a mere seven to nine grand, Roxxxy's creators promise the “best in robot sex”—which, for some men, is exactly what they claim to be experiencing in their marriages today (albeit at a much greater long-term cost).

The key difference, if I understand correctly, is that Roxxxy is "Always Turned On and Ready to Talk or Play," which no men I know have ever claimed (well, maybe the "talk" part, but few brag about that.)

Roxxxy’s greatest promise is that she responds to your conversation according to how you program her. So, if you're an idiot, and you want a robot-with-a-vagina to say things like, "I like to hold hands," Roxxxy's your rubber gal. Or, if you're anti-idiot, and you want to talk about sex or sports, the doll will not only respond to your comments, but will also let you know how horny she gets when you dissect every play in the hockey game.

I have yet to say to Patty, "Wow, did you see how he deked out that goalie?", only to have her respond, "Really? Take me... NOW!" I keep hoping.

Don't get me wrong. I like to hold hands, I like to hear about my wife's day (no, I'm not lying), and I have zero complaints about anything that goes on in the boudoir. So the idea of bumping uglies with a robot seems a little impersonal and more than a little desperate. It could also be potentially embarrassing were the kids and their friends to walk in while Dad's going to town on a moaning rubber slab. And I think it's downright creepy that you can "swap" the personality of your Roxxxy with other guy-friends online. I guess I'm conservative.

And yet there's something quite compelling in the idea of being able to say, “Who cares if the dishes are piling up?” or “Wow, it sounds like you’re PMSing” without receiving a less-than-sexy response (say, a paring knife in the face.) Just once, I'd like to offer, "Hey, there's two minutes 'til my show comes back on...you wanna?"and hear back, “That gets me so hot!” I'm just not sure the thrill's worth four mortgage payments.

Next up for Roxxxy's creators: Rocky, the male robot. I couldn't find details, but I'm guessing one option will be to buy it without a penis—since, for women, it might be a refreshing change to actually speak and be listened to without the expectation the conversation will lead to sex. Just guessing...

A sick, whining little bitch

Generally, I consider myself a giving, thoughtful person—no more so than, say, Mother Teresa or that Jesus dude. Okay, maybe a smidge more, but I don't like to boast.

Example: were my wife Patty ever willing to talk about sex (other than to say, "Shut the fuck up about sex"), she’d have to admit my approach to foreplay usually involves more than a simple flirtation like, “Here comes the choo-choo” or “Daddy’s got’ya.”

I’ve even offered to let my exhausted sweetie sleep through the act if only she’d comply. Unlike some selfish men, I don’t need conscious applause to know I’ve accomplished great things. Besides, isn’t it the best kind of compliment to know I find her pleasing even when comatose?

My acts of kindness aren’t limited to the bedroom; I’m a Renaissance kind of guy. If I stop for fast food, I’m absurdly generous with what I can’t eat—often, all the pickles and more than one crescent-shaped piece of ketchup-soaked bun. Children may be starving the world over, but nobody can tell me I don’t look after my own. And, if I’m making boom-boom, I never lift the toilet seat after the act, anticipating a guy might need the room next. It’s called chivalry, folks.

Men, I know what you’re thinking: Why must he set the bar so impossibly high? Women, sorry…I’m married. Here’s a hint, though: let hubby know Valentine’s Day chocolates are half-price on February 15. He'll come through for you, especially if you promise to arrange the chocolates in a down-facing arrow formation on your bare stomach.

What I discovered this week, though, was that when I’m sick, my otherwise boundless altruism suddenly has bounds. As some would describe it, I become a simpering little he-bitch. (Picture Jesus before he mastered that loaves-and-fishes trick.)

My wife has suffered a heart attack, and endured countless indignities associated with aftercare. Half of the world’s medical community knows what she looks like naked, and she’s had more pricks and pokes than that girl in my high school who looked like a horse but enjoyed a degree of popularity because she put out for everyone. Through all of these travails, Patty seldom complained.

I don’t get sick often. When I do, everyone knows. As a courtesy, I offer a running monologue on my every symptom:

“Ugh...just puked in my mouth a little.”

“Diarrhea really makes my anus sting.”

"I’m not hungry…unless someone wants to run out and get me a Quarter Pounder. You can have the pickles.”

My daughter is also sick. Her throat is so sore she can’t eat anything but soup. When one of the kids is in agony, we usually offer up our bedroom to the ailing child, and pamper them with soup and sympathy. Last night, Patty suggested similar treatment for Kelly.

“Nope.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’m really, really sick.”

“But she’s sick too.”

“Yeah, but I was sick first.” And then, “Besides, I’m sicker.”

“Can’t you move over and share the space? Two thirds for you, one third for her?”

"Umm...No. And thanks for saying I'm fat.”

“Why won't you share?”

“Because she’ll want to watch things on TV that I won’t want to watch.”

"Can't you compromise?"

I flash the yeah-right look.

“What if you make that a condition?”

“No. She’ll ask, anyway.”

“So you could tell her she can stay only if she watches what you want to watch.”

“No. I don’t have the energy for that kind of fight. Can't you see I’m sick?” I add a phlegmy cough, combined with a hint of chewing, for effect. Now Patty looks ill.

“You’re selfish.”

Do you see how quickly all of my non-sick-day efforts to be the best sort of man are underappreciated? When I’m better, I’m not even bothering with foreplay, and it will be a long cold day in hell before she eats another discarded pickle.

I’m a great guy, but even Jesus and I can only be pushed so far.