26 November 2012

baby, it's you.

Okay, just to warn you: in the following post I'm going to sound like one of those people. Which is fine. I'm okay with that. I've been one of those people for as long as I can remember. Let's face it... When you scratch my misanthropic, curmudgeonly surface, there's just another layer of creamy, nougat-like Andy Rooneyness. Of course, I'd like to think I'm an eensy bit less idiotic than Andy Rooney was. After all, I don't spend my allotted soapbox time kvetching about zippers or express lanes in supermarkets. My bugaboos tend to be more profound and worthy of in-depth consideration. (While I was typing that, I remembered that I recently rambled on for several paragraphs about being called 'sir' by teenagers. But maybe you've forgotten all about that and are busy recalling my hot-button posts on abortion or American politics.)

Damn. That disclaimer really got out of hand. It's as if the Surgeon General sat down with a pencil and notepad to compose a powerful yet pithy new cigarette warning and ended up writing The Gulag Archipelago

Anyway. What I meant to talk about is babies. Well, maybe not babies so much as the parents of babies—who, in more cases than not, are complete dicks. You know the drill. Two saps fall in 'love' (or something like it), get married (or not), and then dutifully spawn. Most people can't bear the thought of adopting an unwanted child and thereby squandering their own precious genetic stockpile. You can understand why. They might potentially give birth to a messiah or a brain surgeon or a high-fashion model or something—and it just wouldn't be fair to screw the world out of that possibility. That womb must not lie fallow. For the good of humanity.


So what if the world is a shithole that will inevitably turn their gassy bundles of joy into drug-addicted reality TV stars? So what if there are already countless cripples, 'ethnics,' and ugly kids who already need good homes? Josh and Kaylee need to scratch that procreation itch. 

This weekend, as you may or may not know, was Thanksgiving weekend in the United States. So if you are a baby-hating crank like me, your odds of having to spend at least some time around the drooling little gnomes is significantly increased. I am not immune to these odds. My sister 'Andrea' and her husband 'Paul' gave birth to their first child 'Lily' this year. With no exaggeration—or none that I'm willing to admit to—Lily has turned out to be the diapered equivalent of an IED which detonates at every family get-together, splattering blood and viscera all over my mother's earth-tone kitchen wallpaper. Okay. That's not really an accurate comparison, but what I'm trying to get across is that this baby has changed everything. Forever. She's like a vacuum that not only sucks up everyone's attention, but their identities too. Lily has turned my dictatorial, ultra-right-wing father into a baby-talking, face-making retard. (Which, when I really think about it, is actually an upgrade. What am I complaining about here exactly?) 


I should be fair here. I have nothing against Lily. She's actually okay—as far as babies go. Sure, she's a shiftless layabout who can't even eat without requiring a round of applause afterwards, but she doesn't cry a lot, she's even-tempered, and she isn't butt ugly. It's her parents that are the assholes. They're the ones who fuss over her constantly. We get it already! You had a baby! She's wonderful. She's the baby to end all babies. I know that other people think they've had babies before, but nobody has had a baby like you had a baby. You just tore that shit up. Innumerable generations of second-rate babies have littered the baby testing grounds—until finally you crapped out the perfect infant. 

I know this post doesn't exactly support the assertion I am about to make, but I am a reasonable human being. (Sometimes. Occasionally. Once in awhile.) But I just can't imagine wanting to surrender my life to be the on-call ass-wiper for a bawling lump of gelatinous flesh that's probably just going to end up being an asshole like 99.467% of the population. I really do have a natural propensity for self-negation, but even I have limits.


The upshot of the holiday I spent with the First-Time Parents From Hell is that I'm thankful I've eluded the urge to procreate. And I'm guessing the world at large shares in this gratitude—because any child I raised might be destined to mount clocktowers with unregistered firearms someday. 

So, yeah. I'm basically doing you a favor. (You're welcome.)


18 comments:

  1. Does 'Andrea' read these posts? =)

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    1. You can't obsess over a baby and read a blog post at the same time.

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    2. Hopefully it's just 'first baby syndrome.' I have no idea if we were ridiculous parents, too (although I'd like to think we weren't), but it's definitely much less ridiculous the second time around.

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    3. Don't be silly, Morais! I think you're ridiculous irrespective of parenthood.

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  2. Humanity could benefit from a few extra mini-Davids,
    but they'd only be too smart for their own good and end up suffering unrelentingly their entire lives.

    It's a good thing you had a blog instead of a baby.

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    1. I don't know... if there were multiple mini-Davids they'd despise each other.

      I despise myself.

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  3. Those pictures are the best. As a guy with three kids under the age of five, I can't say I entirely agree with you but I definitely feel sometimes that I've surrendered my life to be the on-call ass-wiper for a bawling lump of gelatinous flesh that's probably just going to end up being an asshole like 99.467% of the population.

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    1. There's nothing wrong with parenthood theoretically. I just think too many parents are zealots about it. They're parental fundamentalists. (We're lucky they don't blow up buildings and shit.)

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  4. testify! i think i recently said to you that a lot of people i knew were having babies and being boring -- classic example when i had a party for my 38th birthday and a new parent friend seriously telling me that she wouldn't really be going out until her kid turned twelve. TWELVE! to me it seems that the relative age of the parents of the babies seem to be a factor for me -- younger parents seem more willing to get baby sitters or make time for non-kid related time with friends. it's funny because for me it's never about the kids themselves -- they're usually pretty fun. it's the parents being so precious about everything and having the inability to focus on anything that makes me want to tear my hair out. part of me wonders if this is because i've never drunk the kool-aid -- i mean, had a baby. :)

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    1. 90% of people who spawn become dead on the inside. I don't know if it's from lack of sleep or an exalted sense of 'responsibility' (notice the quotes around that word), but they're just no fun to be around. They've sold their souls to Fisher Price... to Gerbers... to restaurants that have crayons available for kids to color their paper placemats. It's just unfortunate.

      There are those exceptions to the rule who manage to stay fun (and reasonable and sane) post-parenthood, but when a friend tells you that she is pregnant for the first time, you have to prepare for the worst. These may be your last nine months together. (And really, they start dying inside when they first find out they are pregnant so you don't have nine months anyway.)

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  5. also, thank you for a blog post i could read while i was on an insufferable conference call! :)

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  6. But I just can't imagine wanting to surrender my life to be the on-call ass-wiper for a bawling lump of gelatinous flesh that's probably just going to end up being an asshole like 99.467% of the population.

    Me neither. I never could imagine it. I tell people I was born without a biological clock, which is the truth.

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  7. And, I like to think I'm doing the world a favor as well. Because I am.

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    1. Yeah, you don't want to pass on that back feces gene, Smurfette.

      ;)

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  8. This comment has been removed by a blog administrator.

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  9. As a person who is also happy to have eluded procreation, this post makes me want to have your baby.

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