Hi. Are you here for the giveaway of super-cheap things that make me happy? It’s over here. You should probably go there now because I’m about to start saying shitty things about babies.
So, the royal baby was just born and I know this because I’m alive and on twitter and so I’m forced to know way too much about The Duchess of Windsor’s successfully expanded vagina. I’m very happy for them that they have a baby because that’s awesome if you’re into that sort of thing, but I totally don’t understand the fervor of people wanting to see pictures of the royal baby so desperately. It’s not a spider monkey or a slow loris. It’s not a hedgehog taking a bath or a cat playing the keyboard. It’s a fucking baby, y’all. They look like babies. I realize that I’m in the minority at not wanting to see famous babies (or really any babies) and I think that says something about me. Something bad probably. But I can’t help it. Babies look pretty much exactly alike except in slightly different shades. It’s like when people want me to look at their new car and I’m like, “Oh. I thought that was your old car” and they get all pissy because I didn’t recognize that it’s slightly more bronze and has heated seats. Honestly, I can’t even pick my own car out of the parking lot. I’m forever trying to open doors of cars that don’t belong to me and the car alarm goes off and I have to run away before I get arrested because there are too many brown cars in America.
This is not to say that I don’t want to see your baby. I mean, I don’t want to see your baby, but I totally want to see how happy you are to show me your baby and that’s a good thing and I love it. Feel free to show me your baby. But frankly you could be showing me pictures of some famous baby and I’d still react exactly the same way because I can’t tell them apart. It’s like I have face blindness, but for babies. If there was a Pepsi challenge of babies I would fail it every time.
And this is not me just being selfish. My baby looked like everybody else’s baby too and when I’d take her to daycare I’d doodle pictures of angry cats on her foot so that I could be sure that they gave me back the right baby at the end of the day. Because I couldn’t be trusted to recognize my own baby.
There might be something wrong with me.
PS. Also, I’m feeling totally inferior because Will and Kate whatever-their-last-name-is had a town crier in full costume to announce their kid’s arrival and I barely handed out birth announcements. In my defense though I sometimes scream my exciting news down the street when I’ve had too much to drink, although I almost never get lauded for my home-made patriotism, unless “lauded” is code for “threatened with” and “home-made patriotism” is code for “public intoxication charges”.
PPS. This would scare the shit out of me if I was a baby. Also, I’m pretty sure some of the pins on his cape are from DisneyLand. I could be wrong.
PPPS. In all sincereness? Congratulations, England. Your new baby is awesome and probably already has more twitter followers than me. Keep him away from the town crier because I’m pretty sure that man could unhinge his jaw and inhale a baby whole. Better safe than sorry.