— Fiction —

Birth Announcement

Dear Friends,

Jacqueline and I are thrilled to announce the arrival of our son, Elliot Jason Farb—born on October 4th, 1982—eight pounds, ten ounces. Elliot has the distinction of sharing a birthday with greats the likes of Phillip Roth, Israeli Defense Minister Ariel Sharon, and centimillionaire stock speculator Michael Milken, whose high yield bonds are responsible for the purchase of my wife’s second Audi.

Several notes on what I believe to be an auspicious start. First off, his manhood. Months ago an ultrasound revealed that we were expecting twins! On closer examination … it was a boy. In awe, Dr. Bielfeld explained that while the umbilical cord is usually the most dangerous choking hazard during birth, in this case “… it will be his Schwartz.” As Elliot emerged from the womb several nurses gathered around, pushing the doctor aside, and giggling as they asked where Elliott had been all their lives. Indeed an ironic question, since it was these very nurses who had jeopardized the young tike’s arrival. Only after I had repeatedly pleaded with them that Jacqueline’s contractions had become machine gun bursts did they emerge from their self-absorbed stupor to reluctantly admit, “Oh, yeah, it’s time.” Obviously they took too literally “no heroic intervention.” And now they want a date!?

Despite the brush with natural childbirth, the baby was born happy and healthy. I am relieved to announce that he seems to have inherited the best of his parents’ genetic code. He has broad shoulders like me, and (mercifully) seems to have avoided the cruel fate of my wife’s Eisenstein schnoz. Jacqueline’s rhinoplasty came at great cost, and I will put that saved dough towards a college savings account or possibly bulk condoms for the dozens of blonde coeds my son will soon be able to trick into the sack.

As for signs of intelligence, Elliot has proven his advanced mental acuity by paying attention to his father (who knows best), taking monster dumps and, when offered the teet, ravaging it. He has also shown an amazing proclivity for passing gas orally, which speaks well for a future career in litigation or possibly institutional sales. It goes without saying that patrilineal descent explains the boy’s intellectual prowess. Not to say that there is any history of mental defectiveness on Jacqueline’s side of the family, with the possible exception of her brother Jeffrey, who, though not certifiably retarded, is a registered Liberal.

But the boy’s good health can be only partially attributed to fine stock. I have a theory that a well-timed conception also plays a significant role. It was the night of the best squash game of my life. Down by three games to Doug Norton (Regional squash champ, V.P. Finance at Deloitte & Touche, infamous pussy-hound…), I returned blistering shot after shot with backslap roundhouses, topspin corners, and a final dagger to the heart in the form of a slammed ace serve that made Doug, by his own admission, forever my bitch. I was a monster that night, and when I returned home, goggles still foggy with sweat, Jacqueline was understandably intoxicated by my man-fumes, and I planted the master load conscious that if conception was the possible result, the kid would be a warrior. As it is written on the family crest: “Farbs don’t shoot blanks.”

Enclosed is a photo taken after the bris. Despite Elliot’s endowment, we used a mohel after all, and returned the guillotine which I had borrowed from the French Consul General, just in case. A simple procedure involving a small blade and a Kleenex doused in Manischewitz unsheathed the appendage. The boy awoke like so many men after a drunken night: hung-over with a dump in his pants and part of his penis missing. Yet Elliott seemed prepared for the great responsibility that comes with being one of the Chosen People. As is Jewish custom, the men in the minion buried the boy’s foreskin under a lemon tree in the backyard. It’s been a week, and the tree’s fruit has ballooned melon-ward …

In closing, I leave you with this previously ineffable truth about of parenthood: All the clichés apply. You can sit there for hours staring at your baby’s beautiful face as if watching the greatest movie of all time. My remaining days would be spent thus if it weren’t for another, more widely recognized truth: Somebody’s got to pay for this mess! Sure, the insufferable pussies in our third trimester Lamas class might lack the testicular fortitude to admit it, but last time I checked it was still the man’s duty to provide for the family, and by that I mean make all the money. You would assume that the feminists’ insistence that men share the child rearing work would actually lighten the load on men at their jobs, but no—now we are expected to make all the money and change the nighttime poopie diapers. As I rise at 2:00 a.m. to wipe diarrhea off my son’s testicles I surreptitiously reflect on this alarming double standard conveniently ignored by the Left in their ineluctable quest to feminize the shrinking population of potential mates just when called on to confront the looming war of civilizations … But I digress.

Thank you all for your good wishes at this very special time, your cards and phone calls. There is so much that I look forward to in the coming months, not least of which is Jacqueline getting her figure back (Thank you, too, “Hanoi” Jane Fonda for lapsing from your effete pinko commie self to help women across America tighten and firm their buttocks—at long last you have done a real public service, to which I eagerly contribute $12.95 plus shipping and handling). Family is so very important, and though I remain skeptical of all outside influence on my son, particularly the motley crew receiving this card, I look forward to planting the boy briefly in your arms if only to give you the smug satisfaction of someday saying, “I knew him when …”

With Joy and Great Satisfaction,
Stan & Jacqueline Farb