I’ve just witnessed the most disgusting and depraved ‘funny” baby video I have ever seen on YouTube.  It’s so bad that I cannot even bring myself to post the link.  Only 37 seconds long, it makes the shitty baby video seem heartwarmingly adorable by comparison.

It begins with a spread-eagled, presumably EC’d baby being “pooped” by a woman (presumably mom) over an open diaper.  An older child of perhaps two is clearly distressed by this sight, and her mother laughs and jokes as the kid freaks the fuck out.  The cameraman (I’m assuming Dad) can be heard teasing the toddler in the background.

Both parents are clearly fascinated by the infant’s defecation, and only the two-year-old’s reaction suggests an iota of intelligence.  The parents cheer the shitting baby on while the little girl cries and holds some sort of surgical mask over the lower half of her face.  Dad then begins snarkily cheering on the little girl, encouraging her to stare at her baby sister’s private parts as the poop works its way out of the infant’s ass.

The video ends with a hairy, overweight old man appearing in the doorway in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts.  I honestly wouldn’t be surprised if he’d paid for an hour with one (or both) of the children.

I’m not a fan of censorship, but I’m even LESS of a fan of children being victimized — especially by their own parents.  The baby may have been blissfully unaware of its surroundings, but the little girl was clearly being subjected to a sickening situation which her parental units seemed to find hilarious.  I reported the video to YouTube, though I’m sure it could be argued that it remains within their terms of service, as baby vag no longer seems to qualify as nudity these days — at least not on Facebook or Youtube.)

Why do people upload this shit?!  Do they find it cute?  Do they think it’s funny?  And don’t give me that, “We only put it up so Great Aunt Ethyl could enjoy these most-precious moments of our little snowflake’s existence.”  Aunt Ethyl doesn’t want to see that shit any more than the rest of us — unless the reason she can’t actually come and visit your snowflake Neveah (and witness these “precious moments” for herself) is that the State will not permit her within 50 yards of a child on account of her having previously viewed/filmed/directed/starred in “precious moments” of your first child (or someone else’s).

Besides, it doesn’t take uploading what is essentially child porn onto YouTube to keep in touch with friends and extended family.  That’s why we have Facebook — and STFU Parents.

NOTE: If you haven’t already bought Blair’s Book,  I highly recommended it as 101 on the world of parenting overshare via social media.  (There’s more to it than poop and baby vag; I promise.)

“Natural Parenting” Blogger Has a “Sizzling” Love Affair with her Child


The following essay, “Into (and out of) the Mouths of Babes” reads like Fifty Shades of Grey for female pedophiles:

I try to resist the pull to fulfill his desires. He craves my attention, my embrace, my gaze, but I want the moment to be mine alone. I am successful only until he says my name.  Then my will is gone, and I’m his. “Jessica! Jess!”


Being on a first-name basis with my son made me feel like I was both his equal and his servant—a familiar dynamic.  Since the beginning of our relationship, he and I had spent a lot of time breastfeeding.  At two, my son’s love affair with my breasts still sizzled.  The concept of my body as both mine and the boy’s had long been a challenge for my husband, even before the boy was walking or talking.  Or calling out my first name.

His language and cognition had matured by the time he was two, but his desire for my body blurred boundaries, challenging me.  It was one thing to be felt up when he was an incoherent blob.  But it felt different when he could say to me, “I wanna nurse you, Mommy” and “other side” while trying to wedge his whole arm under my bra and creep his fingers toward my unoccupied nipple, as though this time I might decide I like it instead of telling him, “Move your hand.” I began instinctively to hug my chest, pressing my unsupporting arm against the dormant breast, sometimes cupping myself, or pulling him off to stop the groping.

Nursing used to be the panacea for all ills: hunger, fear, fatigue. By age two, we were on a more predictable schedule, but my son’s eyes would still flash when I got naked like lollipops were taped to my chest. He’d pretend to reach out and coyly tell me he wanted to nurse, just because he could say the words, and then would proceed to ponder my genitalia, fascinated with the embouchure required to say “vagina.” His mouth played with different tones and tempos for the word. I both laughed and cringed when he began toggling between the v-word and “Jessica,” whispering as though both three-syllable words were magical mantras holding the key to a delicious mystery.  Perhaps they are.



I don’t often say this, but this woman needs to be dragged from her home, paraded naked through the streets, and stoned as a whore.  Or else those children should be taken away from her pedophile ass and adopted into a family that isn’t going to sexually exploit them.  The fact that her husband would permit such behavior has me wondering if he isn’t diddling the kiddos as well.  WTF Mombie?!  *shudders*

How to Feed a Toddler


Select a delicious, nutritious meal to feed your child.

Sober up to the realization that there is no way in hell he would ever eat that.

Come up with a new meal featuring minimal (less than three) ingredients.

Assemble the meal. In many cases, cooking will not be required.

Present the meal in an attractive fashion (sandwiches shaped like zoo animals, pancakes decorated to resemble faces).

The sell. (“Oh WOW, these look sooo yummy! “ / “You’re a lucky [boy/girl] to get such a yummy [breakfast/lunch/dinner]!” / “OM NOM NOM!”)

Once the meal has been refused, stand firm in your resolve that THIS is [breakfast/lunch/dinner], there will not be an alternative [breakfast/lunch/dinner], and he will eat what you’ve made him.

The entire meal finds its way onto the floor. Luckily, you anticipated this, so there is an identical plate sitting right out on the counter. Clean up and replace lost meal.

Ignore your child’s frantic cries of hunger. You’ve already fulfilled your parental obligation to make [breakfast/lunch/dinner]. Go empty the dishwasher or read a magazine.

The cries get louder. Your child is clearly starving. Deny the pleas for Cheerios and Goldfish Crackers. He will eat what you made him or go hungry. You are strong. You are the one in charge.

Disregard the pity in your heart for your starving child. Ignore the guilt you feel for imposing such suffering upon a small, helpless creature. Go do some laundry.

The cries of your child become unbearable. Over the sound of the dryer, you think you hear Child Protective Services knocking at your door. Beg your child to sit down and eat his meal. Offer him cookies if he takes just two bites — no, one bite — of his damned [breakfast/lunch/dinner].

Your child is wasting away. You are a horrible [parent/grandparent] for abusing your child so. Fearing [loss of custody/incarceration/eternal damnation], you allow him a belly full of [Cheerios/Goldfish Crackers] for [breakfast/lunch/dinner].

Break down crying as your child happily eats his snacks. By this step, you should feel guilt for giving into the demands of a fussy toddler and denying your child a healhy, balanced diet — he would have certainly eaten the full meal if only you had held out a little longer.

Child learns to get what he wants through emotional blackmail. As you begin to plan the next meal, so does he.