So, while I was babysitting I accidentally let a yarn shark eat your baby. But don’t panic. I also made pot brownies.

sgsdgsf

PS – Creepily enough, your baby appears to be a doll. Not that there’s anything wrong with that.*

asfasdf

*There so is.

It took the creator of this book ten long, presumably sexless years to collect enough rocks for a full alphabet plus rock illustrations of what each letter represents. Meaning, clearly, that if rocks could sing, they’d be belting out, “Get a fucking liiiiiiiiiiife!”

via Coochicoos

disclaimer: I actually think this book is radical, but I’m a jerkface down to muh rock-shaped bones

“Eco Packs are made from recycled water bottles and trimmed with naturally biodegradable canvas.” You know what else Ego Packs are? Not available in red states. FUCK YOU EARTH!!

Note to toy manufacturers: Don’t name a game Pig Jax if it looks like it has eight penises.

Let me tell you a little story. It’s called the day I (almost) grew up. It was today. It happened on etsy. I typed in “poop” because I wanted something really gross to write about…and not a single poop product made me laugh. Getting older is a real bitch. After that I headed over to Swiss Miss and found these Toilet Paper Roll Owls and I find them charming. Gag. Someone put me out of my misery before the arthritis sets in.

Grow a Best Friend. Or a set of balls, you needy Nancy. My favorite part about this is the person’s post, “Ohh, I see it now. This probably wouldn’t make for an awkward gift, not at all.” My least favorite part about this is the fact that they misspelled “here” on the package. No wonder they have no friends…dummies.

Grow a Best Friend, $1.99

via Chad “Head Toot” Ballew

Hey kids, inspired by the BabyC Cradle, let’s learn the Pretentious Baby Alphabet!

A is for Anglophile, which baby must become immediately postpartum, lest he be regarded as a one-dimensional American plebe.

B is for Bougainvillea, baby’s middle name, after the flowers pinned to the mane of his distant royal Uncle’s noble steed as he rode through village, regarding his subjects with disdain.

C is for Cashmere, the only fabric to touch baby, from swaddling clothes to funerary attire on the day of his imminent demise, surely from the daily strain of being smarter, more interesting, and better looking than everyone else.

and D is for Darling, the ABCs are so last year. Those in the know moved on to Morse code weeks ago, you insipid  -.-.  ..-  -.  -

That’s right, it’s not a binky. It’s a FUCKING PACIFIER, you feeble-minded nimrod. If you ever spew baby talk to my future spawn, I’m going to kick you repeatedly in the bummy-wummy, fist-hug your face until you see sparkly-warklies and throw you in a ditch to forever sleep. CAPICE?

Yet another reason I need to have a baby: the sweet and simple Songbirds Mobile. What, you think I’m gonna hang this shit up myself?

Here’s a quick list of the worst smells on the planet:

1. Melted crayons

2. Burnt hair

3. Sulfur

4. A combination of all of the above. (Also known as your underpants.)

Insults aside, this thing is amazing. It let’s you melt your broke ass crayons into new ass ones. How freaking cool is that?!?