An Extra Special Kind of Asshole

Watching the latest Marc Maron HBO Special put things in a unique perspective

The show is solid and funny. At one point, he launches into a bit about not having kids and how happy he is to be a fifty-nine year old man with no kids.

"I had two wives. It takes a special kind of asshole to have two wives and no kids."

Ah, Marc. Thou cut me to the quick.

If two wives and no progeny equals a special kind of asshole, what does three wives and no children make me? An extraordinarily special kind of asshole or an absolute genius?

I’d also like to claim the same title for writing and publishing a book about divorcing my third wife. I mean, what kind of spectacular asshole does that?

My theory about children is that they are born feral. The closest thing to true and authentic evil lives within every child. Kids are just like us but they haven’t learned to lie as well as adults and due to their inability to see their behavior in any sort of larger picture, the selfish, self-interested, narcissistic, violent, cruel nature of humanity is unfiltered.

Adults have that exact same nature and most of us realize that tantrums do not get us what we want. Sure, there are still plenty of adults who scream and throw shit to procure things—a free lunch, a submissive partner, justice—but in adults these outbursts are as likely to get them staring at a concrete wall as reward. Most of us learn to be manipulative (a trait that kids from ages three through seventeen certainly master). Like a bad habit we can try to discipline ourselves to break, being horrible to one another in our own self-interest is in the human DNA.

My first wife and I talked about having kids. She wanted them, I thought "Why not?" We married because it was college, I graduated a year ahead of her and we just sort felt like that was the thing we should do. By the time we wed and she moved out to Chicago, she was overwhelmed by how much she despised the city. A rural Texas girl, Chicago made her uncomfortable. I, on the other hand, found that I thrived in the city. The cracks in our world views came to the fore—she wanted to own a house, I thought that was paying rent to someone anyway and being responsible for fixing the toilet, she wanted to teach but hated the CPS, I loved the school I was teaching in and also loved the myriad opportunities to create theater.

The answer to "Why not?" became "Why, again?"

The relationship between my second wife and I was transactional—she was the director and I was the producer. Kids were never a priority and my time as a teacher had made me sour on the idea. Too many parents with children going wild, unable to control them, throwing up their hands in impotence at parent/teacher conferences. I felt ill-equipped to give them advice about raising their kids despite their obvious requests for it.

Alice (not a wife but four years of off-and-on again cohabitation with lots of long-term life conversations) definitely wanted progeny.

"Let's have kids."

I was now in my forties. "Can you tell me why you want to bring more people in the overcrowded planet?"

She pouted. "I need someone to take care of me when I'm old."

"That's the absolute worst reason to bring a life into the world. No way."

By the time I was on my third and final marriage, I was nearly fifty. She and I briefly touched upon the idea.

"If we're gonna pop out a kid, we need to do it soon or I'll be dead before she graduates high school." I was not terribly invested in the possibility and, as it turns out, my third wife was really just playing a role for a semblance of security. She couldn't even commit to getting a pet. Too much to tie her down, I suppose.

Having a kid is like buying a bidet. People who buy a bidet can’t get enough of it and tell you they couldn’t live without it. My buddy will go on for twenty minutes straight extolling the virtues of squirting water up his ass and how wonderful his kids are with the same enthusiasm. Is a bidet necessary? No. Millions get by just fine wiping their asses with a paper product (or a loose sock in times of crisis). The difference is that a bidet won’t get sick, doesn’t need your constant attention for the first ten years and then can’t stand you for the next seven. The bidet won’t get in trouble with the law or destroy your furniture. If your bidet finally breaks down before you expire, it won’t cause a hole in your existence—you can just go buy another bidet.

Don’t get me wrong—I’m thrilled (on most days) that my mom decided to squat in a military base hospital and drop me into the world. I’m pretty sure that (on most days) she’s happy about that choice as well.

For me, I’m just as happy being the extraordinarily special kind of asshole with three ex-wives and no children tying me to any one of them. The idea of having to negotiate Christmas with a wife was always a pain in the ass. The idea of having to battle it out with where the kids spend Christmas is a melee I’m overjoyed to be missing out on.