Can I just start by saying that when it comes to jokes and TV shows, my tastes can be, on occasion, a little bit low brow.

And just for a little bit of unnecessary clarification…

Low-brow

(adjective)

Definition: something tasteless and intellectually inferior that is devoid of any intelligence. Lacking in refinement or good taste. Often but not always appealing to the absolute lowest common denominator. 

Yes. That about covers it.

I could sit here make unsubstantiated claims about my sophisticated palate for humour and politics,  but the ugly truth is that I can barely get through reading “the owl and the pussycat” to my children without splitting my sides and, truth be told, feeling a little bit violated.

FYI this post is brought to you by kegel exercises. Because bladder control for the actual win.

To further illustrate my point, there’s a commemorative plaque at a playground I commonly frequent with my children that has a similar effect on me:

Basically what I’m saying is, small things amuse small minds…and so on and so forth. I don’t claim to be anything I’m not; tonight when my three year old called our risotto “poo-bottom-o”, I’m not going to lie, I was barely able to stifle a laugh, all the while knowing a responsible parent, without the sense of humour of a 9-year old, would be appropriately scolding him for unsuitable style dinnertime banter.

So. Anyway. I think that serves as adequate warning that what is about to come is not the worldly and refined illustration of my personality that I might like to portray on a day to day basis. But there you have it.

Without further ado I bring you the birth diagrams that nearly got me kicked out of my antenatal refresher class in a fit of uncontrollable, can’t look at anyone because it only makes it worse, brand of hysterical laughter.

At first glance I wondered if we had the wrong hand-out, and were actually looking at the karma sutra guide to conservative sensible gentleman takes nude and harassed looking pregnant lady from behind:

   

Conservative gentleman in well pressed pants even gives obliging pre coitus shoulder massage by way of foreplay:

Well played, sir. Such a gentleman. And with a head of hair akin to a young David Hasselhoff, no less. Swoony.

And then this happened:

Woah there nelly, I clearly underestimated the wanton desire of a deceptively conservative young Hasselhoff.

And well…

That escalated quickly….

Yet somehow, I got the feeling that harassed looking pregnant woman was feeling a little underwhelmed as she contemplated life in the nude on her ikea brand step stool:

But then we got down to the real nitty gritty detail of standing up giving birth onto a pizza box:

And sitting down giving birth on a pizza box. Because; choices.

Or giving birth on the front step of the house with well meaning pizza delivery guy in skinny jeans and on trend, relaxed fit tee giving some much needed support and encouragement along side empathetic, sensitive new age Hasselhoff:

Or better yet from atop the kitchen table:

The possibilities are endless and I must say, not what I had been expecting.

And just when you’re feeling like you need a little bit of descriptive biological know-how to clarify the situation:

Birth outlet.

?????

And there I was thinking it was called a vagina.

Has biology left me high and dry yet again, just like it did with the whole big b little b, fool proof, scientifically proven method of eye colour determination? What about green, biology? What.about.green?

Do babies that arrive via a birth outlet come at a discounted price?

If a vagina is actually a birth outlet does that make the anus a poo porthole?

Have I learned nothing in my 33 years?

These questions and more I was left with, but I did know one thing for sure.

When David Hasselhoff tells you to blow, you blow god dammit.