From the unpublished autobiography of Flex Malarky, 34, of West Chester, PA:

 

            I have always been told that I was blessed with a good memory.  I don’t remember who told me that, but it’s true.  I remember almost everything about my childhood.  In fact, I remember the day I was born.  It’s a day I’d like to forget if you’d like to know the truth.  I spent the first night of my life in jail.  And I had to share a cell with a mass murderer.  The guy had killed an entire congregation in a local church.

            The day I was born was a cloudy, breezy day, with a sixty- percent chance of showers, highs in the mid-sixties.  Dad had taken Mom to the hospital early in the morning, and by noon I was on my way out of the womb.  I’m not too sure of the time, actually.  My watch had gotten caught on the ribcage.

            “Push, Mrs. Malarky,” I heard the doc say.  I could see him crouched in front of me.  He looked like a robber wearing a mask and holding salad tongs.  I informed the man that I didn’t want to come out until I could speak to my lawyer.  He said since I wasn’t born yet I couldn’t exercise my rights as an American citizen.  I asked if he went to law school.  He said he passed by it once, but only briefly.  I took out a cigarette and asked if he had a light.  He said 100 watt.  I told him to kiss my sorry little ass.  He stuck the salad fork at me and nailed me square in the tush.  I grabbed hold of my mother’s ribs and swore that if I was coming out, they’d be coming with me.

            “The kid’s got your ribcage hostage,” the doctor informed my mother.

            Mom was busy doing a crossword puzzle.  Dad was sitting beside her, lighting an unfiltered Camel that was dangling in my mother’s mouth.  “You talking to me, doc?” Mom asked.

            “Yes, I’m talking to you,” replied the doctor.  “It seems as if your baby is stuck.”

            “So what do you want from me?” Mom asked.  “I’m doing a crossword puzzle here.”

            I then took the heart and lungs as hostages, too.  The doctor called the press and in an hour, the three local TV stations arrived with cameras and reporters.  A cameraman crouched between my mothers’ legs and set up a camera and light.  Some reporter knelt and held up a microphone.  “We are here, live, at the Chester County Hospital delivery room where a Mrs. Agatha Malarky is having her heart, lungs and ribcage held hostage by her unborn infant.  Mrs. Malarky, how do you feel?”

            Mom looked into the camera and asked, “What’s a three letter word for `run’?”

            “Run,” answered my dad.

            “Ah.”  Mom penciled it in.  “There!  I won!”

            The reporter peered inside and asked, “Little Malarky infant!  What exactly are you trying to accomplish with this pointless undertaking?”

            He banged me in the head with the microphone.  “I ain’t comin’ out ’til I get to talk to my lawyer, ya chump!” I yelled.

            Just then my lawyer, a Mr. Franklin W. Petterstout, Attorney-at-Law, entered.  He was a fat, able man who knew how to put away a good case of Twinkies.  “No one will speak to my client until I do!” he cried.  He bumped the reporter out of the way and knelt.  He looked at my dad and asked, “What’s the kid’s name?”

            “Not sure,” replied my dad.  “What is it?  Boy or girl?”

            Petterstout looked at me.  “Girl,” he said.

            “Hey!” I yelled.  I flipped him my manhood and drew cheers from the press.

            “Without question a girl,” said Petterstout.

            Just then my mom began to push.  “Lemme in there!” the doctor cried.  “Whoa, Mrs. Malarky, you’re pushing too hard!”

            “What?” Mom cried.

            “I said you’re pushing too hard!”

            “What?” Mom cried.  “I can’t hear ya!  My Walkman’s on too loud!”

            Well, Mom pushed me too hard and I was ejected from the launching pad.  The doctor’s reflexes were too slow, and I slipped through his tongs.  Unfortunately, the window was open, and I held my nose as I somersaulted in the air and landed on top of a Volkswagen Beetle.

            “Head’s up!” the doctor cried from the window.

            Minutes later, a police officer walked by and arrested me for indecent exposure.  Dad and the doctor came down and explained to the noble cop that I should only be issued a warning, being born only a few minutes and all.

            “Alright,” he said with hesitation, “but just this once.  If I catch him out here again without a diaper, I’ll haul his smooth ass in.”

            I was taken upstairs to the delivery room where we found my mother filing her nails and cracking her chewing gum.  “What is it?” she yelled.  “Boy or girl?”

            “Boy!” my father cried happily.

            “Oh well,” Mom groaned.  She began to work on a jigsaw puzzle.

            The doctor held me up by my legs and said, “And now, the first breath of life, my friend!”

            The man simply slapped me too hard.  He knocked me clear across the room and out the window, which unfortunately was still open.  I did a rotating summersault (difficulty 2.3) and landed in the same officer who hauled me in for indecent exposure and aggravated assault.

            Dad bailed me out the next morning, and I was taken back to the hospital to undergo psychological treatment.  Mom lectured me for an hour on proper behavior in this world of ours, and Dad grounded me for a week without the use of my rattle.