This baby is, in absolute terms, a complete and utter piece of shit. I’ve tried to be a good, tolerant caregiver to the mysterious bundle left at my doorstep one stormy night, but I’m at my wits’ end. It’s been three weeks of this nonsense, and there’s been no sign that it will get any better. Well guess what? Time’s up, baby. This baby and their antics need to be put on BLAST, and I’m here to EXPOSE them for all they’re worth.
Day in and day out, this baby chooses to spend the majority of their time sitting around being absolutely useless. While I’m busting my hind to keep a roof over our heads, this infantile sack of crap is lazin’ it up watching Rick and Morty reruns on my laptop, pausing only so they can parrot their favorite lines verbatim at me in their high-pitched baby voice. Sometimes they won’t even finish the line before bursting out into a riotous laughter, stopped short by their sudden renewed interest in the laptop screen. Nothing short of physically snatching the laptop away seems to break this maddening cycle.
Absent raunchy cartoons, this baby will meander around my home looking lost. Rooting through cupboards aimlessly, leaving each one open before abandoning it for the next. Cans of half-eaten beans and crinkled Lays bags are strewn throughout my kitchen floors, peppered with trails of various granolas and puffed corn debris. Does this selfish idiot offer their help in cleaning this wreckage? Of course not, as they’re usually found passed out face-down on my living room carpet after such activities.
Evening hours are when this baby really shows their true colors, though. The carnage really is something to behold. As I’m starting to wind down after a long day, this baby revives with newfound vigor. They’ll loudly ramble off theories they have about various media properties, from Star Wars to Rugratstalking my ear off about how they’re all drug analogies. They can’t be stopped once they start on this path, and I’ve experienced many a sleepless night listening to this little turd explain to me in detail the nuances of a cocaine high and how perfectly the symptoms fit the meta narrative of Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles 2: The Secret of the Ooze.
What little reprieve I do get from dealing with this diaper-wearing douchebag comes in the form of my weekly grocery trips, but even that solo experience is frequently tainted. Throughout my trip, I’ll get text after text from them asking me to pick up various kinds of flavored energy drinks, salted snacks and Cards Against Humanity expansions, littered between countless GIFs of celebrities cupping their hands over their mouths while shouting. If I don’t respond in a timely manner, they start spamming “upside-down smiley” emojis at me until I either call them or turn off my phone.
If I ever dare return from my grocery trips without the requested items on-hand, this hooligan throws an absolute fit. Lots of wailing and whining about how I want them to starve to death, coupled with loose threats about starting up their own street gang called the “Doorbell Ditchers.” Usually the period of screaming and coming up with theoretical prankster lifestyles is punctuated by a long stupor where they lock themselves in the bathroom, blasting atheist podcasts at full volume from their phone for the rest of the day. I don’t see much of them after that, and honestly it’s the part of my week I look forward to the most.
If/when the baby finds my post on the internet, I just have this to say: Fuck you, and move out of my house already.
Special thanks to Ashley and Jordan Farr for lending me photographic evidence of their newborn jerkwad.
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