(One day you’re going to grow up with an inflated sense of importance, and nobody is going to like you. Yes you are, yes you are!)

Don’t do it, Fisher Price. Belgian college retards have developed a toy for babies that tweets for the kid. The creatively named Twoddler (man, that prefix has stayed fresh in the box, huh?) is an activity center like the child of any less pretentious parents would have, complete with flashing lights, buttons, and dials. Only whenever the kid touches it, it sends out a message to Twitter on its own personal account. Phenominal.

The promo page for this bad boy should be warning enough. “I am a toddler and want my mommy and daddy to know how I am doing while in nursery.” Groan! Assigning dialogue to your child is assinine as hell. I would seriously rather someone wave their cat in front of my face saying, “My owner and your girlfriend have noticed you kicking me around the yard and feeding me small doses of poison. Why won’t you wuv me?”

What the hell, continue anyway, University of Hasselt’s web page. “[My parents] are so busy, but are thinking of me all the time. I want to let them know I am also thinking about them. I can’t phone them, I can’t mail them and I can’t write letters, but I CAN twitter! They love to feel my presence and know that I am active.” Ah, perhaps this baby is making a better point than most of my adult aquaintances are capable of. Keeping the parents informed while their kids are at day care is probably an attractive option. But, I think what we have here is a case of over-estimation of the beast known as the American Mother, the mythological creation of annoyance that will tell you about her spawn’s every move as if it were your idea to make the little shit. 

Here’s a new book idea for you Laura Joffe Numeroff (Jesus, your name is a children’s book on its own): If You Give a Kid a Twitter. I’ll start it out for you. “If you give a kid a Twitter, his mother is going to want her friends to follow it. If her friends don’t follow it, that will be OK, because she’ll post the kid’s activities on Facebook anyway. If she posts it on Facebook, she’s going to expect some cooing. If she doesn’t get the appropriate level of cooing, she’ll wonder why her child isn’t special. If she wonders why her child isn’t special, she’ll begin to question her genetics. If she begins to question her genetics, she’ll get in a fight with her mother, and have to go to therapy. If she goes to therapy, she’ll find out the problem is really her expecting anyone to give a shit about a drooling midget pants-shitting human being without the ability to talk, and probably take her own life. If she takes her own life, the kid will probably ask for another mother…” Oh, wait I finished it.

What we don’t need is another way for mothers to clutter the internet with crap about their kids. The more people pimp out the uniqueness of their children, the more they develop a sense of self worth they didn’t earn with accomplishments, which is why we have more lazy, greedy children than we ever have. We already have Barney the Liar Dinosaur drilling into their heads that they’re special, that EVERYONE IS SPECIAL, which is straight up not true. Look at the people surrounding you: do most of them look special? Most of them didn’t even have a chance. So keep that filth in Belgium, where mothers probably have the capacity for abstract thought and a sense of propriety. How about, in America, let’s give the baby something it can actually use: Mustache Cookies! Kids like cookies, right,  and they’re tasty (unless you don’t want them to be, that would be hilarious too)? Your kid can be pretending to be Snidely Whiplash or a 70s porn star in no time, all while enjoying a snack! Also, your friends will want to hear about it, because that means there’s cookies at your house. Teach the kid to say, “I’m Tom Selleck, bitch!” and we’ll even consider coming to its birthday party.