FATHERMUCKER

FATHERMUCKER has obtained an advanced review copy of “Cry, Feed, (Make Love to Wife), Burp,” the parenting memoir by Jerry O’Connell, stay-at-home father to one-year-old fraternal twin daughters Dolly Rebecca Rose and Charlie Tamara Tulip, and husband to magically babelicious supermodel Rebecca Romijn.  Although he has starred in such landmark films as “Kangaroo Jack” and “Joe’s Apartment,” Jerry O’Connell is still best known for his 1986 turn as portly Vern Tessio in “Stand By Me”.  That and getting to boink magically babelicious supermodel Rebecca Romijn.

Here is an excerpt from “Cry, Feed, (Make Love to Wife), Burp”:

(You can hear him read the excerpt in a segment produced by the online literary magazine The Nervous Breakdown, here.)

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The day began waaaay too early.  I was rudely awakened at 9:30 or so by the hideous braying of a small child.  By 9:45, it had dawned on me that the small child braying was my own (I think it was Dolly, but I’m not really sure; I can’t tell them apart yet).  This was very upsetting to me, as I had given Faviola specific instructions not to let the twins disturb me.  Nannies can be such prima donnas.

Rolling out of bed, I found that I was still crushingly hungover—I’d drunk quite a bit of Patron at Tara Reid’s birthday bash the night before.  Also, my legs were really sore, as Becca and I had spent a good hour doing the horizontal bop when we got home.  That rumor that supermodels don’t really get into sex because they’re too narcissistic?  Not an issue with my supermodel.  No sir.  Becca is nasty, and she can go…all…night.  And although she never used to do it with John Stamos, she’s not averse to kissing the ol’ Blarney Stone.  Wink wink nudge nudge.

I took four Advil and choked down half a bottle of Fiji water.  Then I paged Manolo and told him to bring me breakfast.  Would you know, it took him almost half an hour to fix a tomato-and-egg-white omelet?  And after all that time, the bottom was slightly burned!  Plus, the coffee was lukewarm, and the dude brought Equal packets instead of Sweet N Low.  Good help is so hard to find, especially in L.A.

As I ate my ruined meal, I watched Sportscenter.  The Lakers look really good this year.  Ron Artest was a canny pick-up.  Look out, Association!  When I muted the commercial, I heard, from way out in the backyard, the screaming of an escaped llama from the Neverland Ranch.  Check that—a small child.  My small child.  Charlie this time.  I think.  It was a different noise than the one that woke me up, so if that was Dolly, this was Charlie.  Christ, these kids are loud.  Like Becca in the sack. (She’s a screamer).

After eating, I tried to go back to sleep, but after tossing and turning for a good forty-five minutes, I found that I could not.  That often happens to me when I have too much tequila in my system.  So I took a hot bath, with the Jacuzzi jets on full blast, and polished off a mimosa.  When I was done, the Advil had kicked in, and I felt somewhat better.

I paged Manolo again and told him to clean up the room and also to book me a massage at Bliss for later that afternoon.  Then I pulled on some jeans and a T-shirt, grabbed my gym bag, and headed outside.  I don’t really like to go to the gym, but I feel like if I work my granite-like abs, Becca will focus at my washboard stomach instead of my ginormous schnozz.

Out in the driveway, Faviola was walking the twins around in one of those SUV-sized strollers.  On a cobblestone driveway!  What sense does that make?  I reprimanded her for waking me up.  She did her usual bit—“So sorry, Mr. Jerry,” and all that horseshit—but I was having none of it.  Again: good help, hard to find.

But I was on to more pressing matters.  Should I take the 911 or the Maybach?  I opted for “C” and clambered into the red H3.  (In your chubby-ass face, Leo!)  I put 2Pac’s “Hit ‘Em Up” on the stereo and jacked it up to eleven.  Faviola covered the twins’ ears as I zoomed out of the driveway.

Out by the gate, I noticed that one of those tour buses was parked across the street from the manse.  I hate those fucking things.  Like, don’t these people have anything better to do with their time then gawk at my gorgeous wife’s abode?  On second thought, they probably don’t.  Thank Christ I’m not one of those losers.  Before I could flip them the bird, I heard someone yell, “Hey, Jerry!  You fucking prick!  I got a bone to pick with you!”

I looked down—the H3 is really pretty fucking high off the ground, at advantage in Hollywood—and there, keeping vigil at the gate, was John Stamos.  Again.  His face was all stubble, and he was carrying one of those paper bags that hobos use to hide their malt liquor bottles.  Again.

“Dude,” I told him.  “We’ve been through this.  Get off my fucking lawn.”

He sort of staggered from side to side, but otherwise didn’t move. 

“Don’t make me get out of this car, dude.”

“That’s not a car, you wife-stealing douchebag, that’s a fucking tank.”

“That’s right.”  I’m already out of the H3.  “And it’s named for something Becca never gave you when you guys were married.”

“You little…”

He took a swing at me, but he was drunk, and he was John Stamos, and I have washboard abs and the confidence that comes with satisfying a supermodel on a daily basis.  So I beat the living piss out of him.  Again.  As I landed the knockout punch, who should drive down the street but my current and his former wife, in her Maserati, top down, with her good friend and X-Men co-star Famke Janssen, who was in town for the week.

Becca was all, “My hero, my hero,” and she was so into it that Famke got into it, and the next thing I know the three of us are in the Hummer, right outside the gate, realizing every conceivable variation of ménage à trois in front of the tour bus and the fallen, unconscious body of John Stamos.  Again.

It’s a tough job, watching two infants while your supermodel wife brings home the bacon, but somebody’s gotta do it.

Alabama Jennings, the two-year-old daughter of country music dauphin Scooter Jennings and Drea de Matteo, the actress best known for playing Adriana on The Sopranos, is “fully talking, counts to twenty in English and Spanish and is a super artist,” her mother tells US Weekly.  “She paints at her easel all day.  It’s amazing!”

Then comes the kicker.  Of the grand-daughter of Waylon Jennings, narrator of The Dukes of Hazard, she adds: “I might have created the most important person to have ever lived.”

She may well be right.  But the most-important-person-to-have-ever-lived claim would be a lot easier to swallow if the girl wasn’t named for a state currenly ranked forty-seventh in education.