For more than a hundred years, scientists have attempted to channel the life essence and healing powers of a baby to create healthy hybrid baby-adults. These experiments have all failed. It was up to the invisible hand of the free market, the kind fingers of capitalist progress, to come up with a solution.
Enter The Peekaru. Absorb the heat. Absorb the life. Your baby gives you power. Your baby's energy is your energy. Your baby can't talk, but if it could, it would say "I am nothing, I have learned nothing, and I vomit. My self is a blank slate, and I wish nothing more than for you to write upon it." And so you do.
"I am a very small baby and I don't want to go outside." But it's not your choice, baby. You are part of my body, and I say you go. There's a hole for you to look through. You smell my smell. It's fleece and hemp. I smell your smell. It's milk-shits and Desitin. I'm drunk on earth-mother power and it feels great. I'm saving the earth.
You want to sleep? You do it on me. Your schedule is my schedule. I'm busy, so you're busy. I'm wearing a hat, so you're wearing a hat. And make sure you lean forward, because if you don't stay glued to the curve of my back, the other hybrid child-mothers will think I'm a bad body-combiner. I hate their approval and I want it. I want it like I want nothing else in this sick, vaccinated earth. Keep your head where it needs to be or I'm going to keep it there for you.
I SAID I WOULD KEEP IT THERE FOR YOU AND I DID. If you don't want the baby-cuffs you're gonna keep your hands where I can see them. Your skull and spine abide my commands. We are a hybrid now. We are a hybrid and we love the earth, and we love to stay warm.
The child rides the man, because the child is in charge of the man. He is the child's servant. For if the man is to be a hybrid, he shall be the slave portion, and the child shall rule him, and underneath he shall serve. Onward! To hybridize with my mother, and lead the earth! TO THE FUTURE!!!
Sir Mix-a-Lot's classic follow up to "Baby Got Back" has serious unintended consequences.
"Really, Holmes!" I dropped into my seat, shocked. "You are remarkably tall! What are you, six foot six? Six foot eight?"
Drew Fairweather goes through hundreds of Things for Sale every month, and he saves the worst of the Worst for Something Awful readers!