Dreamy He’s Not Sleeping in His Crib Retorts

Funnier dad happier baby. Obviously, this doesn’t apply to your blah brained husband. So, all you have at your disposal is some occasional bed sharing with your ugly baby your daughter can’t stand compared to mine.
Who are you the teacher in Pink Floyd the Wall? If you don’t eat your meat. You can’t sleep in blissed out comfort next to mommy and daddy all comfy and warm.
Breast feeding is easier, and it does wonders for the baby’s complexion. Not that you boast much to nosh on. But formula babies look like they took a load to the face with an Elmer’s Glue Gun 24/7 for a reason.
No offense but nobody’s bum rushing to manhandle your son at Stop and Shop in Northern Westchester 10 AM Monday morning.
Does your son have a plush crib laced in Fubu? Is he a rap protege like Nas in the making? Do his nursery rhymes have the world by the balls already?
According to my dad I left gnash marks in my crib because I was fucking starving to death. And I ended up seeking mental refugee in weed for 20 years to fill the gaping void of love left my mother.
I know. Baby Samuel will grow up with Kettle Bell solid self-esteem now. And never turn to drugs or loose fat women in and out of drunken blackout binges to feel more complete inside.
And I’m supposed to believe with a straight face that your bed was a perpetual bouncy castle with your IT nerd hub before it morphed into a 24/7 milk bar. Wait a minute this happened to me.
He already outgrew our Kevin Hart deluxe edition. Plus, he makes more grown up jokes than Kevin Hart’s ribs at Stephen A. Smith’s ugly suits.
They grow up fast or never really like Kevin Hart. But nobody’s perfect.
I know. Baby Samuel will grow up with Kettle Bell solid self-esteem now. And never turn to drugs or loose fat women in and out of drunken blackout binges to feel more complete inside.
The End
By
Michael Kornbluth

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