![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEhpmF3QVCfArKihl6CdCtMX9AHuHtkxQxq0t76BsPfwkUnRrRWFkeZI37sFOoOiUgoScp0sVaK8wq7DF03mZ8CZCpRS2iNYZ2fQHVCBlGjfI7lhCdTMQS33Bb_aytoCKxrLwKgezKRb7lk/s320/baby_new_year.jpg)
Picking on Baby New Year is like shooting a guppy in a barrel. Three words have never been combined to such ridiculous effect (well, except maybe for Jar Jar Binks). A diapered baby with a pageant sash is the best we can come up for a spokesman at midnight on December 31? Baby should be snoozing in his crib, not hoovering Asti and twirling a noisemaker.
And don’t even get me started on Father Fucking Time. It’s past your bedtime, too, ding-dong. Drink some warm milk, wrap your beard around you like a wiry blanket, clap off the light, and call it a year.
(photo: handmadebymother.blogspot.com)