I’m a dad. I’ve got a 5-year-old. I love her to death. And you know what? I still have no problem telling you that babies are a pain in the ass. What’s more, look at that Ginger-creature above? Sorry, parents of the creepiest kid ever, but I will not congratulate you on the birth of your sea monster. Where does it say we’re obligated to congratulate people on the birth of their freak show? I mean, that kid’s got more hair than most middle-aged men. And what’s with that forehead!? Were I looking to advertise my upstart business, by all means I’d be delighted to advertise across the front of that massive skull. But truth be told, who would read it? I mean, it would require to look into the eyes of, well, that!
Don’t get me wrong: some babies are downright adorable. Hell, my daughter was a cute little porker with a smile and blue eyes that pierced right through me. And you know what? I don’t like looking at her baby pictures. They don’t look like my daughter; rather, those photographs encapsulate some type of weird, alien sack of goo.
When you get right down to it, what good are babies? I mean, what do they do other than endear their parents to other parents and old people? I’ll tell you what they don’t do:
- My taxes;
- Earn a living;
- Say interesting things;
- Clean up their own shitty diapers;
- Make dinner;
- Drive my drunk-ass home from the bar;
- Make great mix CDs;
- Praise my fantasy baseball picks;
- Take out the trash; or
- Refill Daddy’s “medicine.”
You know what babies do? This:
I’m not saying babies have no good qualities. I mean, if you’re a single guy with a baby, you’re an instant babe magnet. That, or you’re a pedophile. Or a kidnapper. Okay, single guys, just put the baby down and no one gets hurt.
This creep is so going to hell.
Bottom line is that babies are more trouble than they’re worth. They’re expensive, always crying and smell funny. They shit and piss themselves at will, and I frankly don’t feel like dealing with that until my parents can no longer take care of themselves, at which time I’ll be committing them to a senior home. On the other side of the country. Without phones.
Well, that’ll just about do it for Letter “B,” so join me next time when Letter “C” punches you square in the kidney. Until then, have at it, you vultures!