Thoughts on books, often interpreted through the high-brow prism of cartoon (read: Archer) references. Wait! I had something for this...
I'm not what one might call a “baby person.” I'm not against the very existence of babies*, but they make me decidedly uncomfortable. There are some exceptions, but for the most part, I don't ‘do’ babies (see disambiguation of term below).
Our titular Baby Hater, however, has a different bone to pick with the infant crowd; namely, the fact that she can't bear one. Infertile and alone, she has a decidedly grimmer view on the so-called circle of life.
After being forsaken by two assholes for clusters of cells that multiplied and multiplied and turned into wriggling shitting machines, so the wriggling shitting machines could grow up to be raised by the assholes, therefore destined to turn into assholes themselves, I grew to despise children.
And the children she so despises are constantly making themselves known. It seems parents these days just don't know how to keep their babies from crying.
So, what's to be done other than to start punching babies in the face? And boy does that turn out to be a rush! It also turns out that she's not alone in wanting to take these babies to task.
The book is only 37 pages long, so I'll leave it at that. It's funny, and dark, and ridiculous, and its cover bears an uncanny resemblance to Butters' grandmother from South Park (I'd take being punched in the face over “gummy bears” any day).
So, next time you miss your train because a parent thinks this is a good time to let little Suzy try out her walking skills on the escalator, maybe this will make for a relaxing read.
But, of course, every now and then a cool baby comes around (read: I'm always looking for an excuse to do a Wee Baby Seamus montage).