2002-12-02

Oh no�it's worse than the Card Patrol�the Baby Patrol is here! Oh, sweet lord, not on a Monday. Please, people. The fact that you've managed to disprove Darwin's 'survival of the fittest' theory by inflicting your cockeyed DNA on the gene pool is upsetting enough as an abstract concept. I don't need to see the drooling, burping, vomiting physical manifestation of the act as proof, especially not while I'm at work. When I put this outfit on today, 'resistance to flying excreta' wasn't a deciding factor in my choice of pants. If my dry cleaner hired you to drum up some extra business, please go back and tell him that I promise to switch to Sambucca this weekend.

It's not that I don't LIKE babies. I just hate this show-and-tell that goes on during every single fucking maternity leave. I'm so pleased that you've managed to fulfill your biological raison d'�tre by cranking out some offspring. Really, it's fucking ACES. But seeing as I speak to you a grand total of once a month to ask if the photocopier is free, is it really necessary to dump the issue of your loins into my arms and expect me to explode with maternal delight? Because I am neither maternal nor delighted. I have no idea what to do with babies. I think my biological clock is broken, because they don't inspire me to smile indulgently or talk in a cartoon-y voice, and oddly enough, upon close perusal, my job description involves neither of those things, so I'll have to ask you to take your bundle of joy elsewhere, thanks.