Tuesday, July 03, 2012

“What To Expect…” Misses Expectations





Ah, the life of the critic. It is a mystifying vocation where each review is a new romance; a journey which both leads and follows the whims of man. Like a coy escort dancing with her evening’s companion, the critic guides by following the lead. She caresses the client gently, pulls him softly into her grasp, and, by both anticipating and sustaining his wants and needs, she brings him to the desired conclusion. And blowjobs are extra.

Elbert Hubbard once said, “To avoid criticism, do nothing, say nothing, be nothing.” In the face of such wisdom, one is forced to ponder, “Who in the fuck is Elbert Hubbart?” “WHAT TO EXPECT WHEN YOU'RE EXPECTING,” by Heidi Murkoff, Arlene Eisenberg and Sandee Hathaway is one such book. Suffice it to say that these three blowhards could learn a thing or two from Elbert Hubbard. Frankly, contrary to their title, they have no idea about what I should expect when I’m expecting.

First of all, the three ignorami apparently have no grasp of what it is that I’m expecting. Let’s be clear about this: I’m expecting a massive intercontinental war to erupt over the scarcity of clean, drinkable water. I’m expecting to send my son, and possibly daughter, off to some foreign land to kill or be killed so that I can take a nice long bath twice a day while sipping scotch on the rocks. From what I skimmed, this book doesn’t even touch on my expectations.

No, these three saps go on and on about how tricky it is to be pregnant. For the love of butter, somebody needs to get their heads out of their vaginas! Come on folks, this is not some innovative technology – people have been having babies for quite some time. I’ve got four simpletons in my own immediate family who managed to pull it off. Couple the couple, wait nine months, boil some hot water, and voila, you’ve got poached eggs. Wait, I think I missed a step there.

Anyway, this book has a complete lack of character development. The story plods along giving a month-by-month play-by-play about pregnancy. Every lousy month of the ordeal has its own chapter. This is more tedious than that TV show 24 where Donald Sutherland’s son is always crawling around in heating vents.

Each chapter starts with some gibber-jabber about how mom is getting bigger and baby is getting bigger. This chapter the baby has a heart – now the baby has a brain – now the baby has a penis. We get it – when it pops out it is going to be a baby.

Give us some suspense. Where is the personality? Will the baby be some sort of evil genius? Is he possessed by the ghost of a parasite that used to live in Da Vinci’s anus? Give us something to chew on here, please.

Most of this miserable diatribe is written exclusively from the woman’s perspective. There is only one stinking chapter dedicated to dads, and it doesn’t touch on fishing, football or hookers. Hello? I haven’t read anything this female-biased since “Menopause and Me.”

Many chapters include information labeled “What you may be feeling?” or “What you may be concerned about?” Wrong. They failed to include even one of the things I am feeling or any of the millions of things I am concerned about. If my feelings and concerns were a bullseye and the idiot trio was an archer, these three morons would be pulling arrows out of their own three-headed ass. The blowhard triumvirate went so far as to include a meal plan in their stupid book. If I wanted to read a menu, I would have gone to Hooters. And don’t give me a diet which omits spicy buffalo wings, either.

According to the jacket, this book has sold more than 10 million copies. Think about that. If the book costs $1.00, that is more than $10 million dollars. Think about how many babies you could buy with that kind of money. These braggarts further boast that the book remains on the best-seller list of a New York newspaper. As if anyone reads newspapers anymore.

No, What to Expect When You’re Expecting can only be described as a miserable failure. If I wanted to expect all of the stuff that these three chumps ramble on about, I’d just knock my wife up again. United, we’d spark the flame of another precious soul to blaze and enlighten this wonderous universe, if only for a brief flash of time. And sex trumps words.
Originally published 4/2/2006 at oneear.blogspot.com