Remember a few months ago when the internet was a set ablaze by a video and its accompanying news of an Indonesian baby that chain smoked two-packs a day? Well, the latest news on that story is the baby has finally kicked the habit and is no longer on the road to getting lung cancer before he learns how to drive.
Smoking Indonesian baby, we’re so disappointed in you.
You’re a quitter. We don’t like quitters. Sure, the habit you kicked was a nasty one that would have eventually killed you, but that doesn’t change the fact that while under public pressure to change your ways, you actually changed your ways. That’s a sign of weakness, baby. We like our babies steadfast and resolute. We like babies that can poop in the pants of death, mock its request to follow it in to the afterlife then shout at the devil. We like babies that are born with the knowledge of how to turn to the world and say F-you ingrained in their DNA. We like babies, but not in that creepy, pedophilic way. We just like hardcore babies.
When we first heard that you smoked two-packs a day, we thought nothing of it. Then we learned that you were a baby, and we were all like “DICK PUNCH AWESOME BALLS! THERE’S A SMOKING BABY IN THE WORLD! DOES HE DRINK BEER YET? WE’LL BUY HIM A ROUND OF TWELVE!! AND PUT A NIPPLE ON’EM, HE’S TEETHING!” We were overjoyed at the news that out there in the world existed a baby so badass that it wasn’t born as much as it clawed its way out of the womb to get a head start on racking up the number of vaginas he’s been in; his mother’s being the first, the nurse that helped birthed him second. The lady in the hospital commissary was third, although we understand that you don’t like to boast and brag about her as she broke your heart more than you ever thought was possible within the 17 minuets you had been in existence.
You, Smoking Indonesian Baby, are a man amongst babies. Or, at least you were. Now, you are nothing more than the shell of a once mighty baby. If a movie were to be made of your life, Bruce Willis would have voiced you. You would have slaughtered countless onscreen bag guys and would have always, without fail, gotten the girl in the end. The movie would have been titled Crib Death, and there would have been 7 sequels (Crib Death 2: Nap Time and Crib Death 3: Breast Dead being the best ones after the series was reduced to the same old tired formula of murder and diaper soiling) and 1 prequel about how you ejaculated yourself so you can be reborn in a younger body in a cycle of self-creation worthy of the earth’s most cherished mythologies, (there would have also been an awesome chase sequence through the fallopian tubes). You could have been a battle sperm jihading its way though the female reproductive system.
But, no. You have squandered it all, baby. You have let us down. No longer are you the shining beacon of badass that you seemed to be. Now you are just like all the other babies: crying, pant-shitting buckets of suck that don’t smoke cigarettes and are, therefore, uncool.
We hope you’re proud of yourself, baby. You’ve made us lose a little bit of faith in the world and its capacity to bring about life that’s self-destructive from birth.