See the baby

I'd rather not look at your fucking baby. Don't bring that jerky little homunculus into the office, and don't stick it in my face. If I wanted something to hold something that'd been in your wife's cervix, I'd clean-and-jerk your mailman. Contary to what you may think, dear coworker, your child is not sweet and magical and unicornlicious, but rather an unemoting blob that quite resembles three pounds of mashed russet potatoes stuffed into two legs of nude pantyhose, knotted up like a balloon animal giraffe.