Remember Courtney? And remember that episode of The Simpsons where Mr. Burns gets Lisa pregnant? Well combine both of those memories and you have a good idea of what happened. Actually, I just googled Lisa and she’s 8. The comparison is slightly off. All you need to know is that I never thought I’d be spending my birthday in America choosing between the names Derek Junior and Dynamite Dangersaurus O’ Toole.
My birthday started with a card from a secret admirer. The message on the inside read:
You are the most handsome and sexy boy in America. All the girls want to do the sex with you.
The handwriting looked peculiarly like my mother’s but I ignored the whole situation and filed it away in the section of my brain that stores material for my future therapy sessions in a psychiatric ward. I placed the card on a fire and went for a walk outside in the warm sunshine. The birthday gods were kind to me that morning and provided me with a wealth of material for my favourite past time – laughing at people when bad things happen to them.
I watched an elderly man call for help after his guide dog had mistaken him for a poorly dressed piece of bacon. Not a single person heard his screams for help the whole hour I was there. But the best came towards the end of my walk. A mother, who had only moments ago broken her leg in several places, watched helplessly as her child weaved in and out of rush hour traffic. A good time was had by all. Except for the child who got run over by the combine harvester. He had a terrible time.
On my way back from my human safari, I trotted into the store near my house to buy myself a birthday treat. I had saved up long and hard for the treat of all treats – a Curly Wurly. It was all very Charlie and the Chocolate Factory running back to my house screaming
Chocolate! chocolate! oh wonderous chocolately treat from the baby jesus.
There was one major difference between me and Charlie. When I came home with my chocolate bar there was no one there. All my grandparents died horribly deaths years ago.
When I got home, I scoffed down the Curly Wurly without a sound. I figured that the kitchen was the best place to have my birthday party. I baked a birthday bun for the occasion and managed to find a half melted candle to stick on top of it. I made sure to sing happy birthday to myself in a different voice (Hot American girl voice who had a rough time with her last boyfriend but is now willing to give love another try) to give me the feeling of having friends. It made everything seem less miserable.
Just when I had inhaled enough deodorant, the phone rang. It was Courtney. From her shouting and anger vomiting I figured she wanted me to call over as soon as possible. Courtney refused to tell me why she needed me so urgently but I narrowed it down to a few possible reasons. She was either so wet from the thought of me growing older, stronger and smarter that her vagina had taken control of her brain, sending her into a sex trance that ordered I be sent for… or else the anal speculum she had bought for me was too heavy to carry all the way to my house. I dare you to google it… safe… search… off.
I reached Courtney’s house in a mere matter of hours. Before going into her house, I performed the vital cowboy squat to release any lingering gasses. It is extremely important to empty your colon of as much eye watering poisons as you can before meeting up with a girl. A violent release of intestinal born methane has the power to paralyze and even kill your partner in the most intimate of moments.
The happy atmosphere of the day strangled itself when I entered Courtney’s house. A strange smell of growing baby hung in the air. Then I saw her, lying motionless across the table. A number of thoughts raced through my mind…
Please say she’s sleeping. Please say she’s not dead. Please say that’s a packet of Kimberlybiscuits on the table…. its a packet of Mikados. I’d rather eat two hairy, albino caterpillars, lying on a blood covered wafer.
She raised her head. She wasn’t dead. Damn it.
I have to tell you something Derek…
Now as all men know this is just about the worst thing a girl can say to you. It simply means that something awful has happened and you’re about to find out what it is. Its up there with such statements as:
I never actually slept with your arch-nemesis, he just put the tip in.
I wasn’t even that drunk last night… I wanted to give my thong to those gang members
I won’t be able to cook you dinner tonight, I have to go to my extreme knitting class.
You know the worst is coming and any mental preperation is futile. Your shoulders shrink into your chest and every sweat gland in your body starts producing a hot yellow slime. Then just when you think you’re ready to hear what she has to say… just when you think you have enough adrenaline running through your body to lift a fridge over your head and throw it through a wall… she says…
I can’t tell you.
Fear is quickly replaced by a tsunami of anger. You now have to spend 30 minutes coaxing her into telling you the horrible news and pretending that you don’t want to murder her. A half an hour is the precise amount of time it takes for a girl to tell you that she wasn’t actually asleep when you text her last night and, that she did in fact end up going to that cocaine casting party Ron Jeremy was throwing in his mansion.
In hind sight I would have settled for the Ron Jeremy gang-bang confession. She finally got the words out…
a) addicted to knitting
b) after upgrading my subscription to the Sandwich Making Network
c) pregnant with your child
The answer was in fact c).
A feeling of panic started to run marathons around my body. The only thing that comes close to this feeling is the emotional grenade tossed into your stomach when you realise you’ve miscalculated your return to school after the summer holidays. Every year this miscalculation is caused by that same prick who has some overbearing parent on the PTA, who he swears told him that school doesn’t start until Tuesday.
And then comes the nervous breakdown on Sunday evening when your mother tells you to get your school uniform ready for the next morning. In an attempt to delay school by a day, you throw your uniform into the toilet and make the case that you couldn’t possibly go to school wearing something so smelly and disgusting. But you always ended up walking to school the next day, smelling of your Dad’s Sunday roast unsinkable toilet logs.
Back to Courtney, Dangersaurus and myself. Courtney explained to me that her woman blood was extremely late in arriving and that she was definitely pregnant. She told me that there was no point in trying to convince her otherwise because she could feel that she was pregnant. Theres no point in trying to argue with that kind of science. Courtney then told me that the pregnancy was entirely my fault and that it was my duty to buy a pregnancy test. For the record, I pulled out in plenty of time for the majority of my delicious seamen to land safely on my Robocop bed sheets. I only left a few drips inside the Great Pit of Carkoon. Not anywhere near the 100 sperms needed to make a baby. Read a biology book Courtney.
I wobbled off to the nearest pharmacy. When I walked in, a few old ladies in the pharmacy started staring at me and whispered things like…
…call an ambulance, I’ve had a fall…
I staggered up to the prescription counter and waited to be served. A crooked old lady holding a bible and a sex is satan pamphlet came over. Choking and spluttering, I asked her for a pregnancy test. She condemned me to hell and informed me that there was no need for me to come to this counter. After a few bible readings and exorcisms, she pointed my Elmo coloured face towards the lady problem aisle.
I incorrectly assumed that I would be able to glide past and grab a pregnancy test. It turns out that there is more than one baby predictor on the market. They range from the standard splintered wooden stick, to a test boasting the same size and sophistication of an Amstrad computer. I chose the best sellerbut my heart quickly became torn at the thought of someone pissing on something that cost me $30. Settling for the $10 Pregnancy Princess, I grabbed some other random items to disguise my purchase. I loaded up a basket up with razors, bubble bath, notepads and pens. The shop assistant looked on in horror as she scanned through my pregnancy test and suicide kit.
I arrived back at the bunker, taking a last gasp of irresponsibility before going in. I handed her the Mongolian made test and she ran off into the bathroom. To cure my boredom, I rummaged through her purse and took the $20 dollars she owed me for the test plus necessary expenses ($50). After a few dribbles, I heard the bathroom door swing open behind me. My legs melted into the floor. Chirsty Brown would have done a better job standing up.
Courtney informed me, in a loud unending screech, that she couldn’t bare to look at it herself and that I had to go into the bathroom and see what the result was. I reluctantly gave into her wailing and entered the hatch. The doomsday device was lying on the ground next to the unflushed toilet. I took a deep breath of pee air and reached for the Pregnancy Princess. I stooped down for the lottery stick and my phone slid effortlessly out of my jacket pocket and sailed straight into the pee filled pool. Suddenly Courtney burst into the bathroom with a smile plastered across her face.
I just realised I got the date wrong! My period doesn’t come for another 7 days!
I reached into the pee and rescued my phone. I could see from my birds-eye view that the test was negative.
Isn’t that great? What’s wrong with you?
My nervous breakdown began to bubble up as I walked towards the front door… taking off my pants. My ears shut down and refused to listen to her voice. I opened up the door and walked out humming the tune to the Teddy Bear’s Picnic. I was taking off my socks when my vision became blurred… then my reality turned to darkness. Naked and cold, I woke up in a forest surrounded by stuffed animals and spooning a picnic basket. It was time to re-evaluate things… and find out who the naked guy next to me was…