Dear Diary,
I am 40 years old, and today, I finally lost my virginity. No, not that virginity; today, I changed my first diaper.
I know what you’re thinking: You’re 40 and you just changed your first diaper?
It’s hard to believe, I know, but I’m a guy. There have always been women in my life, and every time I claimed ignorance to diapers and babies and poop, they gladly performed the duty.
You said, “Doodie.”
Hehe. Good one. But I’m serious. Sometimes, feigning ignorance can be a powerful instrument. Women have been using this tool on men for ages.
You said, “Tool.”
Hehe. Stop it. I’m really being serious. Any time women want men to do something for them, they pretend to be dumb. It’s not because they are; it’s because they’re actually smarter than us.
Speak for yourself.
They’re masters at manipulation, and throughout time, they have honed that skill by pretending to be the weaker sex.
I hope your wife doesn’t read this.
Heh. Yeah, me too. But she’s an exception to the rule. When she wants something from me, she just asks.
So you’re saying you’re whipped?
What? No, not whipped. Just willing to do anything my wife needs. Look, you’re getting me off the point here. I just wanted to write a note that I changed my niece’s diaper; it was a milestone for me.
So did you get poop everywhere?
No. That’s one of the reasons I’m kind of proud of myself. The whole operation went very smoothly. My niece even showed me which diaper to use, and I only had to use two wet wipes. Of course, I did have to wrestle the diaper on her while she screamed with glee.
Are you going to start in with the “Three Men and a Baby” references now? ‘Cause if so, I’m gonna throw up a blue screen.
What? No. Although I will say, her poop was so rancid I almost gagged. Those awful daddy-baby movies do get that part right (shudder).
So are you done tooting your own horn yet? I was up $400 in at the Poker Palace, and I was flirting with this little Macbook from southern California. We were starting to get freaky when you interrupted me.
You’re sexting over the internet? I’ve got to say, that’s a little sad.
Hey, I’m not the 40-year-old man keeping a diary.
Touche, mon frere. Touche. Until next time …