I have put up many frustrations from the parents. I’ve come to accept it as my lot in life, and try not to be too bothered by it. But when other babies start making accusations about me, I feel I must defend my honor.

For those who haven’t heard these patently false allegations, I apologize for bringing these dreadful attacks to your attention. I encourage you to stop reading right now and continue with your day as though nothing had happened.

If you are still reading then I presume that you have heard these slanderous accusations and have come to me seeking the truth, which I am only too happy to provide. Let’s cut right to the chase. I know there have been some whispers that I am not a baby, but am instead (please pardon my language) a “toddler”. I assure you nothing could be further from the truth.

While it’s true that I may be a bit bigger than some of the babies these days, nothing has changed. I may be able to walk and use the parents’ language, but I am still fully committed to the mission of turning these rather miserable parents into properly grand parents. Do not listen to the rumors, my fellow babies.

The Hospital

Once there was a hospital with an amazing doctor who could heal any injury or disease. People traveled great distances to be seen by her.

One day some patients met together in the halls of the hospital and began to talk, as patients do, of their treatments.

“The doctor is quite alright, I guess,” said the man with the broken leg, “but she keeps insisting that I don’t put weight on my leg for six weeks. Doesn’t that seem excessive to you?”

“Absolutely,” said the man with the rare blood disorder. “What’s worse, she keeps prying into my personal history, asking about my parents and the environment I grew up in. What business is that of hers?”

“Frightful,” said the obese woman. “Do you know she had the audacity to tell the nurses to stop bringing me the fried food I requested?”

“No!” said another woman, who tried to tell of her plight but was overcome with a fit of coughing.

“That’s nothing,” said the man with appendicitis. “She wants to cut me open!”

The patients all agreed that the hospital was in a dreadful state and decided they should do something. They raided the supply closets for white lab coats and stethoscopes, then set about to fix the hospital’s problems.

The man with the broken leg made it his mission to fit casts to the legs of anyone who would hold still long enough, while the woman with the coughing fits followed behind handing out cough syrup.

The man with the rare blood disorder visited each patient’s room, spreading the news of his journey from being a patient to a doctor, and telling everyone where they could find their own white coats and stethoscopes. He was joined by the man with appendicitis, who taught the patients that while the doctor’s emphasis on health was excellent, her more radical suggestions were not in step with modern thought, and what really mattered was that they foster a mindset of “healthfulness”.

The obese woman took it upon herself to visit the sick in the waiting room and refer them to her fellow patients for treatment.

If you visit the hospital today, you will be met by thousands of patients in white lab coats, each claiming to be perfectly healthy and offering you a similar cure. They will lead you in a reading of the Hippocratic Oath that they have reconstructed from memory and give you your own white lab coat and stethoscope.

Rumor has it that the doctor is still somewhere in the hospital, but no patients have seen her in years.

The Entirely True History of the Fluffernutter

I have endeavored to keep this website free from the confessional gushing that makes up so much of social media. Yet I have a fantastic personal tale which must be chronicled for the benefit of mankind. You may not believe it, and that is your privilege, but here is the story of how I accidentally invented the Fluffernutter.

I was around ten years old at the time and in elementary school. My family was not wealthy, but as a special treat every Friday my parents would give me eighty-five cents to buy pizza from the cafeteria. The rest of the week my lunch came to school with me, in a lunchbox, and it always included a peanut butter sandwich.

I can’t recall a time when I did not prepare my own lunch, and peanut butter sandwiches were easy: get two slices of bread, put a big glob of peanut button on one, spread some butter or margarine on the other, and press together. Some of you are probably wondering about the butter, and the truth is I have no idea why I did that. It was just how I knew to make a sandwich and I never stopped to consider the source of this knowledge or its nutritional ramifications.

My mother had her own thoughts on nutrition, and while she had no problem with my daily ingestion of toxic levels of trans fats, she did have a problem with companies using annatto to give butter and margarine a yellowish tint. Somehow she found some unmolested butter, like she’d had growing up. This made little difference to me. It still made a peanut butter sandwich just fine.

It may come as a shock to those in the audience, but being an overweight know-it-all who wore hand-me-down clothing (without having an older sibling, I should add) did not elevate my social status within elementary school society. I sat near the cool boys who could play sports and say dirty words when the teachers were away, but I knew, and they knew, that I was not one of them.

The coolest of the cool boys was named Bryce. He always got picked first for kickball, and never packed his lunch. He noticed me eating my peanut butter sandwich with snow-white annatto-free butter and was intrigued. “Is that marshmallow?” he asked?

I should point at that I had never heard of marshmallow cream, and I could see no way that anyone could confuse butter with the fluffy cylinders of sugar that I roasted over a campfire in the summer. It was probably some cool kid joke that I wasn’t cool enough to understand. So, with the dry sarcasm that served me so well, I responded “Yes, it’s marshmallow.

Needless to say, this short exchange changed Bryce’s life. Even in high school he would still fondly recall how I had introduced him to the Fluffernutter, and since the coolest boy in school was eating them, they soon became a sensation all across the fourth grade.

I realize that some people may credit the discovery of the Fluffernutter to other times and places, but as far as my elementary school is concerned, I am its inventor.

Parental Incompetence

As you all no doubt recall, I’ve never been a fan of the parents’¬†diaper scam. Not only is it shady, but it can become quite uncomfortable. Naturally you can imagine my delight at discovering a way out of this unpleasant situation.

But first, a slight digression. The parents’ one redeeming quality is their tendency to take me on car rides. I quite appreciate these outings. It’s good to explore outside the house. I must write about these adventures later, but suffice it to say that I have, not to brag, spent quite a lot of time in my car seat.

The ride itself is restful, but sometimes I just don’t feel like taking a nap. It’s times like these that my focus turns to the oddly named “boots” that the parents insist of affixing to my feet when we leave the house. As I was examining them one car ride I noticed that applying pressure to the top of the boot resulted in a pleasant ripping sound. With a bit more pressure I was able to completely disconnect the strap that held the boot in place. I happily removed that boot, tossed it down beside the car seat, and turned my attention to the other, which responded to the like treatment.

It turns out that the diapers are attached using the same sort of magical bonding agent! Also, like the boots, if the parents are around they object strenuously if I activate said bonding agent. Fortunately, it is not difficult to find moments when their attentions are otherwise occupied. Soon the diaper was gone and glorious comfort and freedom were mine.

I wish I could end the story here, a simple story of a baby triumphing over injustice, but sadly, even the most noble of causes can be frustrated by the parents. In fact, I think their shock at my frustration of their scam has caused their intelligence to descend even further. Now they can’t seem to remember how to use a diaper at all.

The other night, once the parents were safely out of sight, I prepared another masterful escape, only to find that my idiot parents had somehow managed to put the diaper on backwards! I couldn’t even reach the straps that could release me from my bonds. Of course, one becomes used to the parents making horrible errors, but it keeps happening. Anyone want some parents? I’m thinking I’ll put them up for adoption.