Oh, good lord, just finish me off now; I've seen everything. The world is a spent and empty shell for me after this.

But wait, maybe I'll hang on a leeetle longer, just to see if anyone ever comes up with a better headline for an insanely, ludicrously surreal photo.

Wait, what?

I'm very deliberately not a parent, so I expect that's why I didn't know that hairy ankles were a problem for small children.

Not to mention pubis. Always shave toddler crotch, is the rule I think. also not a parent, so I may possibly have this wrong.

Why has someone commodified my favorite pillow-talk?

Damn, leprechaun babies are hairy little things, ain't they.

Hope?

*cries*

If it wasn't bad enough having a ginger baby, imagine having a hirsute ginger baby!

remember: someone in the world thought this was a good idea.

Ho. ly. Shit. Now I want to pluck out my own eyes that I may never see such a thing again. But I can't unsee it and now it's in my brain. My brain! *weeps*

Oh golly, eatdonuts, you just made me snarf coffee.

But I can't unsee it and now it's in my brain. My brain! *weeps*

For some reason, I heard you doing an Invader Zim impression as you said this.

It's an epidemic!
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About five years ago, give or take, I was home for Christmas. My dear grandmother was visiting, though she hadn't been in very good health. Congestive heart failure, you see. Still, she wanted so badly to spend the holiday with us (and with me) that she flew from Indiana, ill-advisedly. The trip was too much for her and we ended up taking her to the ER on Christmas Eve.

For the several hours I sat in the waiting room of the ER, I was enmeshed in a conversation with an old guy from East Texas named Gene Crick. (I remember, because he gave he his business card; it's still in my desk.) He was there with his niece, who had a really bad case of the flu or something.

Gene had led a fascinating life. It's a rule, I think, that all 83-year-old men who hang out in ER waiting rooms have led fascinating lives. He was Forest Gumpian. He'd been in lots of the right places at lots of the right times, or so he said. He was a paratrooper in WWII, or so he said. He'd published several volumes of poetry, or so he said. And at 80, he'd decided to start his own grassroots movement, of a sort.

Gene had been around, yes sir. Gene had seen a lot of good things, but he'd also seen a lot of bad things. And during his 80+ years, he'd come to the conclusion that people everywhere would be *so much happier* if they'd just sing more. That's it -- just sing. They should sing over the breakfast table, they should sing to each other in the grocery store, they should sing at bank tellers. Because who can be angry or grouchy when they're singing?

So Gene was trying to recruit others to spread his message of peace through singing. Thus the business card, which was embossed with a top hat and cane. It said "Gene S. Crick," and underneath that, "Don't say it -- sing it!"

I think this hairy baby was created by someone like Gene. Some old man with too little human contact who had a brilliant idea. And he probably repeatedly told people down at the senior center, "I got this idea for a baby doll. You can shave it. My nephew, he works for a plastics company and he's going to get it made. And after that, it's going to be real popular with all the kids. Because you can shave it."

So really, I think the point is that it's always good to have a dream, and a nephew. And some dreams really do come true.

ACK! BLAGO-CARROT-TOP LOVE-CHILD

No words.

pup, I feel like I've seen that in a documentary by Errol Morris.