My parents, a taxi driver, and a 20$ bill

So I think a very common question to ask all throughout the world is "Where were you born?", and I don't blame people for looking at me funny after I tell them my answer when they ask me that question.

I was born in a Manhattan taxi cab. Let me explain.

My parents had me when they were both 30. They'd been married for quite a few years before I popped up in my mom's baby maker. As far as I know, I wasn't planned, but then again...my parents aren't good at planning.

I was born at around noon, December 13th. I was a little bit before my due date, which was December 19th. Again, my parents are not good planners. I was their first kid, and they had somehow convinced themselves that it was absolutely unheard of for a baby to come six whole days before the doctors predicted.

According to my mother, the day I was born, she was originally supposed to have a checkup in the morning so they could look at me through her stomach and make sure I didn't have any horrible diseases or a foot growing out of my nostril or anything of that nature. My mom called about an hour in advance to tell them she had to cancel the checkup. Why, you ask?

She needed to lay in bed for a while because she was having some really bad cramps.

My dad didn't interfere with any of this. He's a pretty decent example of your average manly dude who is intimidated by tiny humans popping out of bigger humans; babies aren't his thing. So my mom was in bed for another hour or two before I was all like I SWEAR WOMAN, IF YOU DON'T LET ME OUT RIGHT NOW I WILL TAKE MATTERS INTO MY OWN TINY, CHUBBY HANDS AND EAT MY WAY OUT OF THIS DAMN UTERUS AND CRAWL UP YOUR ESOPHAGUS.

I believe that's when my parents decided to get their asses to the hospital. My mother claims that their original plan was to walk from our apartment to the hospital. That obviously didn't work out, because my seven pound ass wasn't taking shit from nobody, and I wanted out of that stanky baby-pocket inside my mom.

So by this time, it was maybe nine or ten, and people were out and about in the fabulous city of Manhattan. Imagine this:
You're a tourist in the heart of New York City. You've got your expensive camera and your entire family with you. Where should you go? Maybe Central Park? Or what about Broadway? Maybe you could get some famous new york pizza! But then, suddenly, your day-dreaming session about the Big Apple comes to a halt when you and your family comes across this hectic scene:

In case you've never been to Manhattan, you must understand that there is always traffic. If you live in Manhattan, you know there's no need for a car, because it'll take you twice as long to get across town by car as opposed to walking really slowly. However, my mom couldn't walk the few blocks to the hospital, so my parents were forced to take a taxi there.  This is when things start to get bad.

If you've ever been in a taxi, you know there are three types of cab drivers:

The Robot: Usually the most preferred cab driver. This guy doesn't talk to you, therefor not forcing you to talk to him. This is the dude that knows you've obviously got places to be. He gets you where you need to go, you pay him, you guys exchange a "Thank you, have a nice day," and you're both off to your own lives.

The Happiest Motherf*cker Ever: This dude is pretty damn happy for somebody who drives in a smelly car for a living. He greets you with a giant smile, asks you what your name is, asks what your job is, how you're doing, how'd you get your hair to stay like that, etc. There are two subtypes of this cab driver; the guy who makes you happy, and the guy you want to punch in the face. No explanation needed.

The Giant Raging Douchebag: This dude is smug and gives you bad vibes all over the damn place. He makes every effort to rip you off, and he's just a plain lump of shit. Of course, this is the cab driver my parents got.

When my parents finally got a cab, my mom was literally shaking and screaming, and her water had already broken. My dad was flipping his shit, and immediately demanded that they be taken to the nearest hospital. The cab driver, according to my mother, began slowly driving towards the New York Presbyterian Hospital. No urgency at all. Now that I look back, I question my parents' mental state, as I believe the situation they were in would quite clearly require an ambulance. But, we don't have a time machine, so I can't go back and tell them that piling into a taxi when giving birth=bad things.

So by now, my mom was in full HOLYFUCKI'MHAVINGACHILD mode, and my dad was freaking out because he did not want to watch. The douchebag taxi driver (who we will from now on refer to as "McDouche") made no effort to comfort the two of them, nor did he call an ambulance. Things were getting horrendous, but McDouche somehow managed to give absolutely ZERO fucks, even though this was happening in the back of his cab (feel free to add your own sound affects to this picture, such as screaming, wailing, cursing, and girlish squeals which surprisingly came from my dad and not my mom):

So finally, after about fifteen or twenty minutes, we arrive about a block away from the hospital. McDouche stopped the cab. Yes, he stopped the fucking cab as I was literally taking a peek at my moms underwear. And you know what he says? You wanna fucking know what McDouche says to a girly squeamish man and a hysterical woman about 52 seconds away from popping out a kid and a bunch of placenta onto his cab seats?

"I'll just have you pay me here."

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YOU STEAMING PILE OF FERMENTED SHIT, MCDOUCHE. 

So, like any heroic father, my dad pulls out a 20 dollar bill from his wallet like a goddamn ninja and hands it to McDouche for the 3 dollar fare, readying himself to take the 17 bucks in change. But oh lord, McDouche wasn't going to let things be too easy.

"I don't have any change to give you," McDouche douches at my father.

Right about now is, I believe, the moment my dad should've won the Father Of The Year award. In case you couldn't tell, that was sarcasm I just used right there. Le dad completely forgets that his wife is in the midst of birthing his kid about six inches away from him. He forgets he's in a nasty, grubby Manhattan taxi cab. All that matters to this man is that he gets his 17 bucks in change.

So my mom is screaming at my dad, desperately trying to remind him that there is a child coming out of her. My dad and McDouche are having an epic battle over wether or not my dad will get his 17 bucks. 

That's when I kinda just popped out. I've always had this really nasty image in my head of little naked baby me, covered in birth-shit, flopping around on the cab seat like a dying fish. So McDouche finally realizes the gravity of the situation after I'm born, and he gives my dad his 17 bucks (yes, he had the money, he just didn't want to give it up) and rushes to the hospital like a crazy motherfucker. They had to take my mom into the hospital on a stretcher, as she had just pushed out a child from between her legs and she had a fever so she was throwing up so hard they thought she would puke up a few organs. My dad just followed them, completely petrified and scarred for life. And me? The doctors took me to the infant ICU in a little sterile towel, because I ended up having the same fever as my mom. They had to test me for a bunch of STDs and shit, as I was born on a dirty cab seat. I was in one of those little baby incubators for a day or two. Other than that, everything went well. 

So yeah, that's how I was born. Might I add, my parents are absolutely awesome. Mostly my mom, she's my bestie. It could've been a whole lot worse. At least I didn't end up completely insane like this crazy mofo here.

OR DID I.

*me eating Alix's hand