When Babies Go Wrong

Sometimes it’s hard to live in Brooklyn. Oh sure, there’s plenty of free-range, macrobiotic, grass-fed produce. Hell, I’ve been apologized to by a waiter because the eggs weren’t local. And then there’s the beautiful Prospect Park, possibly one of the finest in NYC. And yeah, I guess it’s pretty all right having a thriving artistic community surrounding me, knowing that every single person in the coffee shop is an aspiring writer.

It’s really not that.

It’s the babies.

The hipster Park Slope babies are cooler than me.

To whit:

You get the idea. They’re living a life of luxury and awesomeness that I couldn’t even imagine, from their delightfully mis-matched designer socks to the hand-blended organic citrus beverage in their sippy cup. They probably go back home to their au pair and carry on a lively conversation in fluent French before taking a nap in their Cinderella-inspired heirloom Pumpkin Carriage iron crib. (note: even if you haven’t clicked on any of the other links, you’ve gotta see this one)

However, all is not lost! There’s one thing I’ve got that these babies will never have: booze.  I mean, beyond even the whole underage drinking thing, now babies can’t even go into bars. Bars are the coolest place to show off how much you don’t care about your designer jeans and casually drop into conversation how lame you job as a professional parachuting specialist to the stars is (Charlese Theron is sweet, but after a while being invited to weekends on the Riviera just loses its spark). What’s the point of even being cool if you can’t use it to impress chicks/bros?

So I say unto you, hipster Park Slope babies who make me look bad: I can still drink beer on the back patio of my neighborhood bar while striking up conversations with the graphic designer next to me about Faulkner. And you can’t take that away from me.

Baby Jogger City Elite Single Stroller

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