My First Time

The first time I pooped myself, I was 6 hours old. At least that sounds about right. I’m pretty sure that when it happened, it got on both my butt-cheeks and needless to say was a disturbing mess for my parents. And then once I punched myself in the stomach, that was a first, cause I only did it once. Well, I guess then some might say that it was the last. So what is it, first or the last? In this crazy universe, with all the words to help me express my thoughts, I am still left baffled by the mystery of God himself.


My first period was a completely bloody, humiliating experience. I should’ve used a comma.


My first time was nothing like the second time, which wasn’t remotely similar to the third time, but eerily reminiscent of the sixth time. Well, then again, nothing compares to the five thousand six hundred seventy-first time. That was the infamous airplane bathroom incident. As for my first time, I didn’t know what I was doing, but it felt completely natural. I mean, it still feels natural to me, but there’s no way I’ll go back to diapers at this point.


The first time I realized farting was funny was when I let one rip in kindergarten after my class got out of the pool. Students and teachers alike joined in harmonious laughter for one fleeting moment. Then I noticed my pants were completely soaked and around my ankles. Come to think of it, that’s when I realized small penises were funny, too. Ha Ha Ha. And they still are!


Giving birth to my first son was a huge ordeal. I opted for a natural childbirth, no anaesthesia, because I’m a hippie or something.


They were so very soft and warm. It made me feel cuddly and safe. And what about those nipples? Wow! And that was the first time I slept on a pair of life-size baby bottle pillows. No, that’s not true: I’m talking about boobs.


I remember the first time someone accused me of being a homophobe. I was very defensive about it. “Look,” I said. “Just because I still call AIDS the Gay Cancer doesn’t mean I hate fags.”


My first birthday was a disaster for my parents. I had died in childbirth and the anniversary of my death made them weep.


I remember it was a royal blue one, with pictures of little harmonicas on it. One size fits all. My dad showed me how to put it on, but I was a quick learner. I insisted that I tighten the Windsor Knot by myself. That morning, I strutted proudly into Sunday School, and asserted my maturity while the other boys wore those cheap clipons. It was my first tie. My first time I wore my first tie. I suppose the only difference between my first time and my first tie is the “mmmm” sound. Which is the same sound a harmonica makes! Oh how the world turns. Here, let me tighten that for you.


I remember the first time I used a font besides Times New Roman. I had finally made my mark on the world. I mustered up the courage to boldly type my eigth grade mitosis essay in Futura. This must be how Neil Armstrong felt when he got his driver’s license, I said to myself. Then that whore Jennifer King one-upped me by using Comic Sans.


“So how would you deal with the nuclear threat posed by the Iraqi government?” The debate crowd held its breath and waited for Ty’s response. In this, the first debate ever held for spouses and/or homosexual thespian lovers of presidential candidates, public attention was high. Laura Bush had already given an eloquent defense of the Bush administration’s missile shield proposal. Now, it was up to the greasepainted Ty to respond.

As moderator Dan Rather waited, Ty began to move his hands in an elaborate pantomime. Brokaw nodded appreciatively. “You mean, the US needs to build a metaphorical ‘box’ to ‘trap’ Saddam Hussein in. Of course!” The audience cheered and whistled their approval.

The rest of the debate was a string of triumphs for Ty. America pulling itself out of its recession by yanking an “invisible rope” of patriotic spending drew applause. When he analogized the development of a single-payer health-care system to producing a bouquet of flowers from a seemingly empty sleeve, there was a standing ovation. By the end of the debate, it was clear that America was going to elect its first gay, harlequin-fetishist president, and Ty would be the First Mime.


The first time I went to a Heuristic Squelch meeting I got free donuts. It was great!