Congratulations Francis Ford Fucking Coppola!

Your first child is going to be born next week. It’s going to be a magical experience, so if you don’t want any spoilers you should skip today’s post. But because of your various social disorders you’re going to want all the information available to you so you can choose appropriate wallpaper and snacks and horrifying masks for your future spawn.

So we know you’re reading this, and we’ll get the big one out of the way right off the bat: its going to be a girl. We know it’s not what you wanted, but these things happen. Keep at it. It’s a fifty-fifty shot each time, although we can tell you right now you’re going to fail the first seven. After that, it’s anyone’s guess.

So you, having read this, will have acquired hot pink wallpaper and tampons for your soon to be newborn daughter. Your wife will be puzzled, and will tell you that even if you do have a girl you won’t need tampons for at least a decade, probably more, but you won’t listen.

You’ll just mumble something about hormones and go back to trying to assemble your new crib while she cries and considers divorcing you. She’ll have been weeping for fifteen minutes a few feet away from you before you decide she isn’t just looking for attention and give her a hug, telling her that, according to a website you read recently this whole nightmare will be over soon.

She’ll look at you like you’re insane, but decide that she can probably change you if she loves you hard enough. As we know, she’ll be wrong.

Your marriage will actually strengthen, incredibly enough, in the wake of these events. She’ll be attentive to your needs and you’ll be completely fixated on her well being, so the two of you will get along swimmingly. She’ll even be happy that you opt to film your daughter’s birth personally.

When the labor pains come you’ll have her to the hospital in record time. Your questionable mental health translates to you being incredibly reliable when your genetic material is involved. She’ll be comfortable, checked in, and you’ll be watching that doctor like a hawk to make sure that bitch doesn’t swap your baby for one of those inferior pricks or worse, a non-white child.

When the “process,” as you’ve been thinking of it, begins you’ll begin filming in earnest, your eye to the viewfinder. You’ll be using the camera your dad gave you when you graduate from high school, since digital tape is cheap and, in your mind, will never go out of style.

You’ll be so excited when you finally see your daughter’s head emerging from your wife for one moment you’ll see something as more important than yourself. It’ll be kind of scary, but when it leaves you you’ll feel kind of sad. You’ll have felt whole for a single, beautiful moment.

You’ll dance around feeling high the whole time your wife is in the hospital, the whole ride home. The feeling won’t leave you until you arrive at your ranch style home and open the camera to find that you forgot to place a cassette in there.

We know you’ll try to change this, that you’ll do all you can to prevent this from happening. But these attempts are simply hubris, and you’re totally screwed. This will be the moment when your wife realizes that she can’t change you, and that your marriage is doomed. All this from the mix of your ego and your terrible taste in recording devices.

Congratulations Francis Ford Fucking Coppola.