ATTN: I Don’t Give A Shit About Your Baby.
So you’re going to/have had a baby. Congratulations.
Now shut up about it, because nobody else cares.
What’s that? Oh? You’d rather fucking fill my entire Facebook wall/life with pictures and anecdotes about the dumb thing? Fantastic.
Okay, I’m gonna be real here for one second. Having a kid is great, I’m sure. It’s the miracle of life and the heir to your family and whatnot. That’s pretty neat. I guess it’s also cool to have the power to mold some poor, defenseless bastard into whatever twisted image you may desire. Playing God is pretty cool. And one day it’ll grow up and actually be an intelligent, interesting kid and then person that you can hold a decent conversation with, provided you didn’t fuck up and lock the kid in a sea chest from 3 to sixteen or something.
But I mean, really. Nobody else cares that your kid looked at you funny or threw strained peas at the cat or whatever the fuck you think is so hilarious and cute that you have to share it with the world, and me especially.
I’m pretty sure having a baby is like having a sentient in-joke that only you get and care about, but you try to explain it to your friends anyway, “Oh! Baby Charlie just vomited all over the coffee table! LOLOLOLOL,” Or, “Baby Charlie is looking at me so inquisitively, I wonder what he’s thinking right now?! LOL” WHO CARES?! It’s a thing with the mental capacity of less than a dog, he’s literally not thinking about ANYTHING! All this thing does is make noise, shit on itself, and eat. It’s a giant parasite, and it’s leeching off MY soul through YOUR Facebook feed.
And don’t get me started on the pictures. Ugh. Whoever said a picture is worth a thousand words clearly had someone waving their stupid baby’s pictures at them all the time, because one picture of a baby is the same as all the pictures of your baby and equivalent to a million of your inane posts about your baby.
Ultrasound pictures are the worst, really. You can’t see shit on them. People show them to me and I feel like I’m forced into a corner, because I don’t want to insult them so I have to look at it like I see this fucking zygote that’s basically like trying to watch porn through the static on the TV late at night, only it’s less titillating because the subject of the photo is generally something that looks like my big toe.
If a medical professional has to circle what I’m supposed to be looking for and be on-hand to provide a walkthrough and detailed explanation of the photo, then it’s not worth my god damn time.
So then you finally crap the thing out. Awesome. Now we have to take at least twenty-five thousand pictures of this ugly shriveled furless monkey-looking thing in the same position (because the damn thing can’t even move yet) from a hundred different angles. Feel free to show me every single one of those as slowly as you can, I think I almost saw one where little Charlie had blinked or moved fractionally or something. This continues until the kid gets a little older and eventually starts moving around and doing dumb shit that unintelligent things with no concept of anything do, like chew on animals or remote controls or whatever. Fuck.
Then we see a million new pictures. And this is the phase where you pose the kid on stuff or with stuff or in dumb clothes or whatever. The thing has basically become a giant dress-up doll (that still eats your food and shits on itself) that you get to put in retarded outfits and sit on a pumpkin or a firetruck or whatever for photo opportunities.
You’re making a mockery of the poor kid. He just wants to roll around in his own filth, but instead you have to drag him around town all day propping him up at a tiny desk, wearing a tiny suit, like he’s doing tiny fucking business. What the fuck is that? Who cares! It’s not cute, it’s dumb! The kid hates it too, I’m sure! Oh look, he’s gnawing on his tiny fucking briefcase! QUICK! THIS ONE IS FOR THE CHRISTMAS LETTER!
And then you set your profile picture to a picture of your kid, that’s awesome. Now I have to look at it even more. And now it looks like you’re some kind of super-intelligent baby who does a complex job, or one that goes out drinking all night. Neither of which are cute. I have to thank The Oatmeal for this section of the rant, or he’ll probably sue me.
So please, take this to heart. Nobody cares about your kid but you, really. And especially not me, so keep it to yourself.