In case you had any remaining confusion as to why I would read dooce with the voracity and intensity that I do, I submit this recent blog post as proof that she is the most entertaining writer on the Internets. First, let’s start with the picture, titled “36 weeks”:
Not amused? Really? Are you sure we’re friends?
Moving on, I submit this snippet from the body of the post:
And then last night I was changing into my pajamas when I noticed a giant rash across the lower half of my butt. I have watched enough Discovery Health Channel to know that rashes, especially ones during pregnancy, are not harbingers of good things. It’s not like, ooh goodie! A rash! This means I’m going to give birth to a giant basket of Snickers bars! It’s more like, uh oh. A rash. Guess I’ll get that EMERGENCY C-SECTION I ALWAYS WANTED.
I started to panic and had to contort my body in all sorts of weird positions to get a good look at it in the mirror, and I would not have blamed Jon had he jumped straight through the glass window in our bedroom to escape the abject gore of that kind of self-diagnosis. Hoo boy, if that image isn’t an effective form of birth control. Son, put on a condom lest you one day be forced into the same room as an oblong whale attempting to inspect its own ass.
In other words, folks, you should really be reading dooce.