Sick of Babies Crying? Finally the Solution!

No matter where I try to enjoy myself, there’s always the shrill scream of a baby to ruin my mood. Airplanes, movie theaters, even day-care centers are being polluted more and more by crying little shit-and-piss-factories being toted around by their proud parents. Now I know what you’re thinking, “Couldn’t we just drown them all?” But I’m here to tell you that that is not an acceptable answer. Because if we drowned all the babies in the world, who would make our sneakers four years from now? I have thought hard on the problem and come up with some humane ways for parents to give us a break and leave their offspring at home.

Use it as a Doorstop: Sit it down with its baby ass facing the door, and then let the door come to a rest on it. The door won’t be able to move and neither will that thing you have to show for that trip to the Pocono’s.

Staple its covers around it: The covers will form a protective cocoon around the little tick. If you’re clever, you’ll use sheets that don’t allow airflow. That way it won’t have the energy to wander off and get hurt.

Put it in the dryer: Put laundry in first, duh! There’s a 99% chance the dryer won’t randomly turn on, and if it does” who says your child HAS to be an Einstein? Most people don’t seem to realize that this is a very affordable (and probably safer) alternative to hiring a baby sitter.

Vegetable Crisper: I figure if it works for batteries, it’s got to work for babies. Even if this doesn’t charge your glorified-hot-water-bottle-filled-with-rancid
-garbage-with-a-leak, it’ll still teach it to appreciate its crib. Ungrateful little shit.

Put pictures of monsters all around it: It’ll be too terrified to crawl off and stick a knife in an electrical socket. I guess it’s win-lose situation when you think about it. Another downside to this tactic is that your child may listen to Emo music when it gets to a ripe parent-hating age.

Tether: Not the kind for pets, the kind for balls. Then invite the neighbor kids over to play with it.

Coat it with Super-Glue: The little blob won’t be able to move; when you get back douse it with acetone. Problem solved.

Send it to Fat Camp: It’s never too early to shoot for perfect six-pack abs. Comment on how flabby its thighs are, make it look at pictures of Rosy O’Donnell, tell it that it’s impossible to love it when it’s buried under a ton of lard. By the time it can speak, it’ll be so self-conscious it won’t be able to hold down its apple sauce without feeling unattractive. Suggest fat camp and you’ll never have to see the little fucker again.

No matter what you decide to do, never ever put it in a large collapsible corral with a pair of twins, an ugly red head, an abusive cousin, a token black girl, a poorly drawn dog, Reptar, and a plastic screwdriver. They get out of those like a celebrity getting out of murder charges. Luckily, they can’t write books bragging about it… for a few years.