Over the years our local newspaper has been an endless source of amusement for me, although I’m sure that hasn’t been their intent. Every now and then I’ll poke fun at them, like the time they advocated shooting women. Or when they famously printed my photo of a baby bird that I named after Oprah’s vagina. But for the most part I don’t get on them about their many gaffes. For one thing the paper is free, and that’s with delivery to my door every week. For another, they printed my picture of a baby bird that I named after Oprah’s vagina. How could I not love them with as much love as any other parent has for their retarded child?
They must really have a thing for vaginas though, because this week we were treated not only to the word in print, but pretty damn near a photo of one too. And not a baby bird’s this time, but a real, living, breathing, human woman vagina.
The story attached to this particular vagina was pretty standard. Some pregnant woman realized she was about to pop, but instead of calling a family member to drive her to the hospital she grabbed the keys and went. And didn’t make it.
This happens around here more frequently than you might imagine. And every time it does, The Advertiser News runs it as their front page headline, complete with the same damn picture of the sweat drenched mother lying on a gurney at the hospital, new addition in her arms, surrounded by the various uniformed personnel who helped her squeeze that caviar out. So when I opened my mailbox and saw the words “Police officer delivers…” on the left half of my folded newspaper, I knew the words “…baby on Highway X” and a picture of a sweaty woman would be on the right half.
I got the headline right, but my assumption about the picture was off by a mile.
Instead of the posed shot at the hospital two hours after giving birth, this time the paper saw fit to post a photo OF the birth. Or at least, as close to the moment of jettisoning as they could get away with.
Check it out:
Holy crap! We’re talking mere seconds after launch here. Look at all that blood! Look at all the goo on the cop’s glove! I bet the kid doesn’t even have a belly button yet.
One thing that springs immediately to mind, (after “EWWWWWWWWWWW!“), is: who the hell took that picture?
Given the angle and distance to the subject, it’s gotta be the mom, right? I mean I can’t see some EMT wedging himself between the mother and the back wall of the ambulance, then leaning over her right tit just so he could get this cinéma vérité masterpiece. It had to be her.
Can you imagine? The lady cop was probably yelling, “Push! Push!“, and our hero was like, “Wait! Gimme my phone, this is gonna make my Instagram explode!”
Looks like I can cancel my PornHub subscription. Our local Fifth Estate is apparently providing that service for free now.
I’m just glad she didn’t require an episiotomy. I can only take so much blood on one front page.
As I mentioned up top, the paper also included the word “vagina” to go along with its almost picture of one. It was in the body of the story where the new mom related in excruciating detail every aspect of her Big Day Out:
“Let’s“? The cop was pushing too? Unless Officer Amy was heavy with child also, I’m not sure that what the mother-to-be needed just then was the sound of a queef. But what do I know….
So that was mildly amusing. What I found even more hilarious though was that early in mom’s recounting of events she said what may be the most New Jersey thing I’ve ever heard:
I feel ya, sister. It’s a Jersey thing. Doesn’t matter if you’re white, black, Asian, a nun, a priest, or 9 months pregnant and crowning. If you’re behind the wheel and spot a cop, your first thought is always, ‘they ain’t taking me alive!‘. Always. You know why? Because your insurance rates – already the highest in the country – go up a zillion dollars per year for every moving violation point you have on your license. And the minimum number of points for a moving violation is three, but can quickly skyrocket into the teens if you’ve REALLY pissed the cop off. If my own fetus was emerging to the point where one of his arms could shift gears for me and I spotted a cop, I’d try to lose him also. We’re talking zillions, people!
By the way, the fact that the cop car was spotted at a Dunkin’ Donuts was not lost on me either. Anyone reading this who lives in New Jersey just said, “Well where else would would you see one?” This story couldn’t be more New Jersey if it turned out the father starred in The Sopranos.
Hey, speaking of bloodcurdling photos, New Jersey, and maybe porn, lookie here:
That’s yours truly at his very first radio gig. And no, I’m not the fat chick. Yet. I’m the stylishly attired fellow in the middle. The one wearing Spandex pants.
Someone I met recently is good friends with that radio station’s former owner, and he passed this archival photo along to me thinking I’d want it. Yep, I love cringing to the point where face muscles cramp, thankyouverymuch.
Anyway, that’s the WNNJ team back when I was Afternoon Drive Guy. The not uncomfortable looking at all gentleman on the left who appears to have nodded off was the Morning Drive jock. He’s still a very good friend, came to my wedding, and now owns a radio station of his own. The girl on the right was our mid-day host. She took off for a gig on the west coast a few weeks after this picture was taken. Smart girl.
I know none of you even read those last two paragraphs, because all you’ve been able to think of since I wrote it was, “Spandex pants?!”
Let me explain.
See, we all had to have our picture taken in front of that giant radio, which was actually a rolling studio which we trailered to various places around north Jersey for promotions, etc. This picture, and also pictures of each of us individually, were printed onto glossy stock that we signed and gave out to anyone who was stupid enough to greet us at these events. We were told to wear colorful, non-conformist garb for the shoot, as befitted our personalities.
I was the only one who did. I wore my Spandex motorcycle racing pants, which were white and red in front, solid blue in back, and ball conforming to the point where they told me to un-tuck my shirt to hide them. And of course, that neon green chapeau. Didn’t clash at all.
Fast forward to the present. I’m now a network newscaster who’s very name is the embodiment of respectability, and even if I am broadcasting from home while the coronavirus has shut down our regular studios, my couture must reflect that:
Goofy pants, check. Black shirt, check. Mismatched hat, check check check. Take a lesson kids: when you find a winning formula….
(Yes, I posted that photo just a couple of entries ago. Shut up. It’s funnier here.)
Ciao, kids. And remember: PUSH!
Hey, guess what? Two minutes after typing this mess up it struck me that the newspaper has an online edition where they post all their print stories, often with more photos. A quick surf over to their site confirmed that yes, they posted the bloody baby picture in even sharper detail than they were able to manage on paper. No gossamer web of inky blots masking the joyous Miracle of Birth there, no sir. Talk about a mixed blessing.
And here I wasted all that time, and became all that traumatized, photographing those pics when I could have just posted the link. Oh well. Time spent writing about vaginas is never time wasted, as my daddy used to tell me.
Personal note to SallyBR: Hey babe, for some reason I am not able to leave comments on your posts any more. It was sporadic for a while, but now I get bumped out every time. It won’t even accept my “Likes”. So if you were sobbing after every entry because you didn’t see one of my brilliant comments gracing your page, it’s not me. It’s you. Or rather, it’s your page. Sorry. (Oh, and I tried a whole sous vide chicken last year. Tasted great, but rather messy. I think I prefer Poulet en Cocotte myself, gluing the lid to the pot with a paste. But that’s probably just because I’m pretentious. Either way, I thought yours looked wonderful. As always 🙂