Chocolate, Please

by Lisa Lampanelli

  I don’t like when women work up until the point they have the baby. What is this, Communist China? Asian women pick rice, have a baby, put it in a backpack, and keep going. No, people! This is America, and trust me, our people aren’t working that hard to begin with. What’s the worst thing that could happen if you send a pregnant woman home a month early—fewer forwarded joke e-mails that involve kittens? Who gives a shit? Clearly, a woman needs to work for the first several months after she gets pregnant, for no other reason than her male coworkers enjoy watching her tits get bigger. After that, she should just stay home.

  Seriously, who wants a woman in her ninth month waddling around the office, carrying a towel in case her water breaks? Plus, the bitch is always leaving meetings early because she has to pee. These women can’t be given any long-term projects, because you never know when they’re going to be gone. Quite honestly, working with a woman who’s nine months pregnant is like working with a black guy. She’s moody, defensive, and you never know when she’s gonna stop showing up.

  Epidurals vs. Natural Childbirth

  Natural childbirth sounds great on paper but when you’re trying to pull a person out of your hole, it’s good to have some drugs. So take my advice, pregnant beeyotches—sign up for them early. Don’t let some hippie cunt trick you into thinking all you need are positive vibes. If you wait until your legs are in the air, it will be too damned late.

  Some women are against epidurals because they don’t want drugs in the child’s system. Hey, Mom of the Year, did you forget about the eight ball you did the night little Jessica was conceived? And besides, wouldn’t you rather your baby came into the world with a little drug hangover and without bleeding eardrums from you screaming “Fuck!!!!” at the top of your lungs for eight hours straight?

  Feminists and people without health care try to go au naturel and don’t even go to the hospital. They have a midwife—also known as a “maid with special training”—and attempt to give birth at home. These people always end up at the hospital anyway when the baby is coming out sideways and the stoned midwife is on the phone with her boyfriend back in Holland. Birthing at home? No, thanks. I’ll have mine in a public place under the influence of drugs—just like the conception.

  Natural childbirth people say delivery without drugs is better for the baby. So what? So is breastfeeding them for two years and actually knowing who their dad is, but that doesn’t mean I’m doing it. And let’s be honest, when this kid is a teenager who’s wrecking my cars and sleeping with people in my bed, I’m going to be glad I didn’t provide the little extras like natural childbirth or spending time with them.

  Seriously, I can’t imagine having a natural childbirth when you consider the fact that epidurals are available. Let me see if I have this right: I can have hours of excruciating pain as I pass a human skull through an orifice that previously had a three-finger limit, or I can have a shot and basically not feel a thing? Hmmm. If I was willing to freely accept that much pain, I wouldn’t have spent my whole life fighting off anal. I think I’ll take the shot. Hell, I needed one this morning and all I was doing was pinching a loaf. Note to self: Eat more fiber.

  Husbands and Other Useless Entities in the Delivery Room

  Recently, it has become popular to turn the delivery room into a cocktail party with guests enjoying snacks and breezy conversation while Mom is getting tortured. They think it’s going to be fun to watch until they spend some time there. Every type of bodily function is on display and coming at you in 3-D. It’s like a Gallagher concert, except it’s entertaining. And the blood! Oh, the blood. The vagina looks like it owed the Gambinos money and didn’t pay up.

  Men especially should be banned from the delivery room. They’re always in the way and, to quote Jack, “can’t handle the truth.” The truth is that the thing they liked best about their woman has just been 9/11’ed. Waiting outside and handing out cigars is much better for men than seeing their happiest place on earth destroyed under bright lights. You know what they say—if you love eating at a restaurant, you should never go in the kitchen and see how the food is made.

  Why is the father expected to be in the delivery room these days anyway? Clearly, they’re no help. And we give them patronizing titles like “coach.” “Okay, I want you to spread your legs and have your twat run the picket fence. And if that doesn’t work, put your finger up your ass and run the Statue of Liberty.” Wow! Thanks, Bear Bryant.

  Let’s face it—the man is in the delivery room for one reason and one reason only: Women want him to see how horrible it is. Why? For a lot of reasons. First and foremost, we’re not going to feel like having sex for several months, and if he sees your twat the size of a trash can lid, he’s not going to want to either.

  Second, this is the one chance we have of telling him what a douchebag he is without having to listen to him attack us back. It’s perfect—the woman can say horrible things, and because she’s having a baby, he has to take it and apologize. I honestly believe this is why some women have ten kids.

  Passing Down the Family Name

  People feel the need to pass on their entire name to their offspring, as if the last name ain’t bad enough. Why give the kid both names? It’s a well-known fact that nobody likes sequels.

  Passing down the family name from generation to generation makes sense if you were a president or a pillar of society. However, if your job includes a shovel or clip-on tie, it’s time to give your kid a break. Think about it: Would you enjoy being called “Little Pete” or “Junior” your entire life? Of course not. And besides, what if your kid turns out to be a fuckup? That’s your name. Do you think former president George Bush likes to be confused with recent president George Bush? Hell, no! It’s gotten so bad, former president Bush has changed his name to Jimmy Carter to avoid the stigma.

  The worst is when a man wants a boy so badly he gives his daughter his name with a girl ending. Like Joelene—the pathetic female equivalent of Joel. Men with the “III”s and the “IV”s after their name just sound like fags but they have enough money to buy and sell you, so you have to pretend it’s cool.

  And what if your name is an old-school weirdo name? Now you have to get beat up every day at school because your great-grandpa’s name was Irving.

  There’s another name phenomenon that is often seen in the South. Dale Earnhardt Jr. Hank Williams Jr. It turns out “junior” is a Latin word that means “half the talent of my old man.”

  Family Trees/Genealogy

  Family trees only matter if you’re betting on a horse or want to be a made member of the mob. Everyone’s family tree starts with a monkey and ends in disappointment. Unless you’re owed a chunk of cash, how does knowing who your ancestors are change your life? Your ancestors’ story and five dollars will get you a cup of coffee at Starbucks.

  People who brag about their family tree are foolish. If you shake anybody’s family tree hard enough, rotten fruit will fall out. Family trees are important to crazy cults like Mormons and Nazis because they want to make sure all of their followers are too weak to have their own thoughts. That’s because it’s the mixing of genes that makes them stronger. Everybody knows that mutts from the pound are ten times healthier than purebred yellow Labs whose bones break when they run.

  I can sort of see why adopted people would want to dig up their family trees, in order to find out what diseases they’re genetically predisposed to. For example, I find it a huge advantage that I know my family background, so I can blame my sluttiness, bitchiness, and bad temper on genetics rather than on personal decisions I’ve made.

  I also understand why black people want to find out about their roots. If they dig back far enough, maybe they’ll find out they’re related to Thomas Jefferson. And we all know there’s no better way to piss off whitey!

  People Who Are Way Too Proud to Be from “the Old Country”

  I’m sick of people coming to America and telling us how great their old country was. I’m not some kind of “America
—love it or leave it” asshole, but if you came to America, stop bitching about it. If your home country was so great, you wouldn’t have left. The prouder people are of where they’re from, the bigger a shithole it usually is—like the Bronx.

  I hate these former foreigners who get annoyed when we don’t know where their country is on a map. Oh, c’mon! Most Americans can’t find Canada on a map. In short, if we’ve never been at war with you, we don’t know where your country is.

  These people are always complaining about the things they can’t get here that were plentiful over there—like malaria and rape. They don’t understand American customs like voting and freedom. They say our women dress like whores but that’s because our women don’t have to cover up because there’s no money for heating oil. And they don’t want their kids corrupted with crazy ideas, like money and fun.

  People are too proud to be from the old country. It doesn’t make any sense. Who cares if your great-great-grandfather was from Ireland? Be proud he moved to a place that can grow potatoes every year. And if you’re Italian, pull the olive oil out of your ass and quit bragging about Sicily. The only reason you’re even here is because one of your grandmas shamed the family by banging a Greek.

  Black people are always pining about Africa, except the ones who have enough money to visit Africa. The minute they go there, they burn their dashikis and start wearing flag pins. And Cubans shouldn’t act all high and mighty. If your country was worth a shit, you wouldn’t have drifted over here in an apple crate. And I don’t want to hear it from the Mexicans either. If your country was as great as you say it is, you wouldn’t have snuck over here to clean our toilets.

  I like the Asians. They learn the language and useful skills like how to give a massage with release. That’s all you can really ask for from an immigrant. The only time Asians get mad is when you call them the wrong kind of Asian: “Me not Japanese. Me Korean.” What’s the difference? You don’t drink sake while you eat your dog? You’ll still do my nails, right?

  The ones that piss me off the most are the Canadians. They have every advantage. They look like us, they talk like us, and then when we bomb a country or refuse to give medical treatment to homeless people, they act all offended. But once they come here, they never leave! They just bitch and bitch and keep taking our money. Congratulations, Canucks! You have officially assimilated.

  Sibling Rivalry

  Sibling rivalry is the oldest psychological affliction known to man. It’s the reason Cain killed Abel. Their mom, Eve, liked Abel more.

  Sibling rivalry can be a good thing among well-adjusted kids from functional families. You see examples of this on television when the sports announcer says, “Steve and his brother Mike are both in the majors, but we hear his younger brother Joe is the best one of them all.” Most of the time, though, sibling rivalry is used by less-than-perfect parents to get the best out of one of the kids and the worst out of the rest. People who never lived up to an older sibling have paid for more drinks at psychiatrists’ conventions than American Express.

  Sibling rivalry comes from the core ego in all people. We naturally want to be the best at everything, and to start, we need to be the best in our own house. To add to the pressure, being in most families is like being in the Olympics. People only remember who won the gold.

  That said, the entertainment world owes its existence to sibling rivalry. If comedy clubs only booked comics who got attention when they were kids, their stages would be empty, and if lap dances were only given by people who were unconditionally loved by their parents, the crisis facing the world would be a stripper shortage, not an oil shortage.

  I think sibling rivalry has a lot to do with birth order, because you rarely see twins dislike each other. As a matter of fact, most of the twins I’ve seen have always been naked in Playboy, rubbing each other’s asses. Even the thought of hugging my older sister naked horrifies me. Of course, she’s kind of heavy, so maybe I’m just shallow.

  Brothers are especially weird. The only person you’ll kick the shit out of faster than your brother is anyone who fucks with your brother. Brothers treat each other like Inflate-a-Mates. They’ll do horrible twisted shit to one, but the thought of anyone else touching him makes them sick to their stomachs.

  Of course, all families have the good one and the bad one. Every kid’s goal should be to be the good one but to marry the bad one. That way, your spouse’s parents won’t give a shit if you come for Thanksgiving or not. It makes the holidays—and life—a lot less complicated.

  Sharing a Bathroom

  Sharing a bathroom is an activity that brings families closer together and further apart at the same time. You’re closer together because you know exactly what your father’s shit smells like after pizza, and you’re further apart because you accidentally flushed the toilet while your sister was in the shower, giving her third-degree burns.

  Sharing a bathroom is like being in the military. It requires skills, extensive planning, and the will to overcome hell. You must be a multitasker with the ability to brush your teeth and hold your nose at the same time. And it takes Pentagon planning to get everyone showered and out the door by seven thirty A.M.

  The only other place you’ll find the hell endured in sharing a bathroom is war. If you’ve ever had to hold back a Stanley Steamer because of a locked door after having a stomachache all day, you know what I mean. The only thing grosser than the unknown hair on the soap in the tub is standing in the shower in a foot of lukewarm water, since the drain is always half-clogged, watching your future nieces and nephews come floating by.

  Even worse than sharing a bathroom as a kid is sharing a bathroom as an adult. There’s something self-defeating about cleaning yourself in the shower while your better or worse half takes a shit in the same room. Even a cat won’t lick itself in a litter box. And as every parent knows, the frustration doubles when you share a bathroom with a boy who’s just hit puberty. Great! I have to wait forty-five minutes to wax my mustache just because Jessica Alba is on the cover of Cosmo. Now not only am I going to be late for work, I’m gonna have to throw away our hand towels.

  Italian Families vs. Normal Families

  Italian families are different from normal families. And by “normal,” I mean WASP families. There are many reasons for these differences. The first is volume. Italians whispering is screaming to a WASP.

  When normal families scream and degrade each other, they go to therapy. In Italian families, the screaming and degrading is the therapy. Normal dads will whisper something like “It’s quiet time” or “Use your inside voice.” Italian dads will yell, “Shut your mouth, you stupid fuck.” And that’s at his baby’s baptism.

  Italians also need to hug, kiss, and basically molest each other constantly. If you need personal space, don’t hang out with Italians. Italians are a very loving people, and if you don’t believe that, you’ll get smacked. In fact, a smack and a kiss are synonymous in most Italian families.

  Italian moms are the worst. A normal mom puts a bumper sticker on her car with a soccer ball with her son’s number in it. An Italian mom puts a hit out on the coach if her son doesn’t get to start.

  The cocktail cart is the center of the universe in most WASP families, but for Italians, the center of the universe is the dinner table. The dinner table is where everybody eats, plays cards, and stews vendettas.

  WASPs make fun of their wives’ cooking; an Italian protects his wife’s cooking honor like it’s his daughter’s virginity. The family’s sauce, or “gravy,” recipe is passed down with pride like the WASPs do with those stupid crests.

  Sadly, though, Italian women are not treated as equal to their men. WASP women have come a long way, baby, but Italian men don’t want their women going anywhere. Italian women are supposed to be beautiful, great cooks, and, above all else, quiet. If an Italian woman wants to make a big stink and take on the family, she needs to run away first like Madonna or she’s gonna get smacked or kissed.

  It’
s a stereotype, but a true one nonetheless, that Italian women are just as hairy as Italian men. WASPs may get waxed and lasered, but for Italian women, it’s like fighting the ocean’s tide: You’ll never get ahead.

  That’s why Italian girls get married young. When they’re twenty, they’re big-titted beauties with long dark hair. Thirty years later, those big tits are hip-huggers, the long dark hair is a mustache, and they refer to their husband as “that lazy prick.” That might explain why Italian men are so angry.

  You don’t believe me? Prepare to get smacked.

  Sears Portrait Studio

  Taking a trip to the Sears Portrait Studio is equal in stress to going to the cemetery to bury the family pet—only with Sears, you get to bring home reminders that last generations.

  First of all, it is impossible for anyone being photographed at a Sears Portrait Studio to look his best. That’s because the Sears photographer is only a Sears photographer because it pays more than being a Sears cashier. Simply put, he has the artistic eye of Helen Keller.

  I actually feel sorry for those kids who work at the Sears Portrait Studio. They spend all day dealing with crying and whining and people shitting their pants—and that’s just the mothers who are unhappy with how the photos look. If I ever met one of these entitled soccer twats, I’d say, “Hey, lady, don’t bitch at the nineteen-year-old photographer because your baby looks ugly. You should have married better.”

  Add to that, no one getting photographed at the Sears Portrait Studio can really bring it. The little kids can’t smile because they’ve just been hit for not listening. The teenagers can’t smile because their braces hurt or the zits on their foreheads are tugging at their brain. Mom can’t smile because the awful background is giving her nausea, and Dad can’t smile either because he’s officially late for his tee time.