I was trying to hit the “change diaper” button and I hit the “broil” button by mistake.

If my wife didn’t want me to microwave the baby, she shouldn’t have named the damn thing Jiffy Pop.

You know, I can think of one other person that was bombarded by waves of radiation and turned out pretty all right. And you know what that person’s name is? The Incredible Hulk.

Our lawn mower is broken.

What ever happened to discipline? Call me old fashioned, but I still say there’s nothing healthier for a crying child than a little time in the hotbox.

FOR SCIENCE!

Sure you don’t get the nice, even roasting of a conventional oven, but who has time these days? Especially with little ones at home!

I don’t get it. I put chimichangas in there all the time, and they come out fine.

She just loves that rotating turntable.

I must have confused something I read in a Dr. Spock book with something I read in an Emeril Agassi book.

Admittedly, the matter transporter still has some kinks to work out.

All our other kids are too big.

I thought it would make the poop smell go away, but if anything it just made it worse.

It was way cheaper than one of those baby tanning places.

Ultimately, it was the Deputy Attorney General’s call.