How Things Really Work and Are and Always Will and Have to Be, Says God. Part 1: How to Make a Baby

My son is getting old.  Not highlander old, yet, but old enough to begin seeing that his old man doesn’t always know everything.  This must be remedied.  To that end, I’ve decided to tell him the secrets of the universe, one at a time, through this blog.  The wrong secrets, watered down to homeopathic levels and then cut with acid and soaked into pages from Dianetics.   Thus this the first installment of my new series, “How Things Really Work and Are and Always Will and Have to Be, Says God.”


Son, making babies is hard.  As hard as organic chemistry times diamonds times Battletoads times R. Lee Ermey–think of the hardest thing you’ve ever done, and then imagine a baby eating that thing.  Only one original document remains on the subject of baby making.  It’s written on 4,000-year-old papyrus rolling papers and, near the end, a Long John Silver’s napkin.  The document’s been savaged by time to a truly Lohanian degree, rendered mostly unintelligible and completely nonexistent.  However, a close reading of the remaining fragments shows that baby-making is not only possible, but potentially rewarding.  Also, according to the coupon page, successful completion of the process entitles you to a free round of a drink the Egyptians called “putt-putt.”


Zig-Zag Papyrus à Rouler

Qualite Superieure

Step 1:  If you want to make a baby, you’re going to want to have handy three adolescent dolphins, three sets of jumper cables, and a car battery.  These won’t help you make the baby; just be warned you will find yourself wanting them.

Step 3: The heart.  Babies are heartless killing machines.  Under no circumstances give a baby a heart; it will just get sold for crack money.


Step 16:  Carefully connect the brain to the spinal column.  Apply too much force and the spine’s telescoping mechanism will jam up, and you’ll be stuck with a dwarf instead of a baby.  If this happens, do not panic–the dwarf can be used to assist in your next baby-making attempt, or broken back down into parts for your next baby (except the spinal column).

Step 17:  The arms.  The arms are really small and floppy, so you’re gonna have to jam them into the shoulders pretty hard to get them to stay.


Step 40:  Next comes the cry-hole.  Make the cry-hole too small, and the baby will choke to death on its own sadness.  Make the cry-hole too big, and the baby’s voice will disembowel anything that hears it.  Experiment with different sizes until you reach a volume level that you, and you alone, can tolerate.  If the baby looks like Carly Simon, you’ve gone too far.

Step 50:  Pants.  A lot depends on the cut here.  Just remember:  a baby’s torque is directly proportional to its inseam.  Hence Proverbs 4:59:  “The longer the britches, say goodnight, bitches!”  Now you know.

Step 51:  Choosing eye color.  A good rule of thumb is, brown eyes, all your thoughts laid bare.  Blue eyes, kill you with a stare.  Green eyes, though more difficult, can be worthwhile–if you do go with green, resist the urge to take the baby’s head out of the mirrorbox for the first fourteen weeks, to prevent the mind-thoughts from oxidizing.


Step 67:  Larding.  You want to get a good layer of lard on there, enough to pad the baby against a wayward haymaker but not so much that it can’t execute a clean five-finger death punch if the situation arises.   Most people err on the side of underlarding.   It all comes down to, if you get snowed in during a blizzard, do you want to have a nice round baby to eat, or a lean mean guilt-free killing machine that quickly runs out of fat stores and decides to death-punch you into a month’s supply of meatsicle?   Answer: yes.


Jean d’Argent à Long

Restaurant de Fruits de Mer

est. 1932 BC

Step BABY:  Your baby is complete.  Now you must find out if it is worthy.  A worthy baby will score at least 50 points on the following test:

Question ONE:  Seal it in a room made out of Avatar.  Give your baby half a point if it finds a way to kill itself before realizing it’s watching a remake of Fern Gully expensive enough to have saved 100 square miles of rainforest.  Give your baby a whole point if it finds a way to stab out its eyes with its own stumpy fingers.   Give your baby two points if it figures out how to roll its eyes so hard they point backward into its own skull, limiting its Avatar exposure to flashbacks from the portion of the movie it saw.   And give your baby 49 points if it escapes, then hunts down and destroys any of the Avatar cast or crew.

Be sure to remove any scar tissue from your baby’s brain before proceeding to question two.

Question THREE:   Drive your baby far out into the desert.  Not too far–not mafia-body-dump far, just mobile-methlab far.  Tell the baby to get out.  Give your baby a full point if it gets out with enthusiasm or a string of hearty invective.  Half a point if it hesitates or struggles getting out of its seat.  And zero points if it pretends not to understand you and you have to shove it out.  Then, remove your sweat-soaked shirt and toss it to the baby.  This will provide the baby with an ample supply of water and electrolytes, as well as enough scent to track you back to your home.  Give your baby ten points for finding its way home within 24 hours, five points for within 48 hours, and zero points if it returns after 48 hours.  If, after any amount of time, you hear of a doomsday cult forming in the desert, led by a baby, give your baby 49 points.

Question FOUR:  Have your baby watch Red Dawn.  Afterward, ask it to name the film’s protagonist and central theme.  Five points for an answer of “Wolverines!  Wolverines!”  Seven points for “Thundercats!  Ho!”  Ten for “Patrick. Swayze.”  49 points if it produces a video of Vladimir Putin being raped by a wolverine.

Your baby’s train departs from Cedar Rapids heading toward Dallas at 100 mph.   At the same moment, another train departs from Denver heading toward Tallahassee at 150 mph.  Question EIGHT:  Will the two trains collide, and if so, where?

a)  No.  The trains will not collide.
b)  Yes.  The trains will collide, just east of Kansas City.
c)  No.  My baby’s train is his penis, and Cedar Rapids and Dallas are the names of his girlfriends.
d)  No.  My baby’s train is his penis, and the other train is his other penis.
e)  Yes.  The two trains are my baby’s penises, and they will collide somewhere inside Virginia later that afternoon.

If your baby answers a) or b), zero points.  Otherwise, 49 points.

This concludes the baby worthiness test.  Tally up your baby’s score, and record it at the bottom of your papyrus.   If it’s 50 or over, congratulations!  You are the proud owner of a real, actual baby.   With regular upkeep, your baby will provide you with months of physical protection and spiritual insights.  Just remember to refuel your baby with a small animal whenever its screams begin to weaken, and swap out the soul every 300 kills.  And don’t forget, once your baby’s life-cycle is complete, you can send the remains to P. Sherman, 42 Wallaby Way, Sydney, Egypt for a free copy of this book’s follow-up, “How to Make a Toddler.”*

*This offer has expired.


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