Jeff Bezos Stole My Baby’s Thunder
I had long waited for today. I was ready with a carefully drafted ‘Wow, this blew up!! Since you are here, please follow me on instagram @SweetMotherOfJess’ tweet but my original post’s only engagement was from my husband and even he didn’t bother to retweet it. GMA didn’t pick it up either. I tagged them and everything.
The artistically shot home video of my baby saying her first word is lying in some trench of the world wide web without a single like because Jeff bloody Bezos stole my baby’s thunder. The insecurity of the man to orchestrate a gazillion-dollar hoopla just so a little girl cannot outshine him is just sad. I pity the man, I do.
His pretentious experiment left a total of zero admirers for my baby’s first accomplishment. A capitalist launched himself into space and it’s as if Neil Armstrong never existed.
Where liquid hydrogen is involved, everybody is like baby, what baby? Not even the baby’s own grandma cared to share my joy. Of course, she had time to take pride in the shared genetics of a billion-strong subcontinent that produced the smart Indian system engineer who helped put a bald man in space. She even called to wonder when I am going to put my degree to such use, like there’s a bigger distinction than being a mother. Hmph, what does she know?
Most people would be content being the richest man alive. Jeff ain’t that guy. He also had to be the one looking down at you from 60 miles above Earth from his huge ass windows. TBH, my niece’s drawing pinned on my fridge has better windows. Plus, it has these cute flower curtains. And, could somebody get the oligarch a subscription to WaPo already. He’d then know the champagne’s already been popped by Richard Branson. Some novelty.
Sure, Jeff went to space. It’s amazing, yes, but so did a Russian dog. Unless your motivation is to stretch the scope of the mile-high club, I don’t see the damn point. That said, I’d be open to copulate on a future Blue Origin mission, and then perhaps hop onto Elon Musk’s SpaceX and settle down on Mars, a happy family playing host to future tourists.
Granted, the mission was risky, but the terror of my baby dozing through her first insta live was a bigger scare. But she plowed through, my girl. She showed remarkable calm under pressure and stammered Ma. Ma. That’s right. Mama. Me, I am her. You know, she was leaning towards poop and worse dada, like I’d allow it! But I am not a quitter, nor did I raise her as one. So, mama it was.
Okay, she may not have actually said mama. But it did sound like it. And what does it matter if it was mama or laedeedatsmellz as long as she understands and identifies me as her caregiver who’ll become her source of strength welcoming her back to sweet home when the recession hits. Perspective, please.
Alright. Brrrrf. She said brrrrrrf. Gee, relax your rigid bones. I know it’s not a legit word, Hemingway, but it’s her term of endearment for me. I call her my honeybun and she calls me brrrrf. My husband thinks she means barf but he is just resenting the turn of events, you know, where a being that possesses half his DNA chooses me over him. And, why not, do you know how much time it took for me to hear my baby say her first word? Two dozen attempts at getting pregnant, three of which could have had us facing jail time. I always say she is a Trader Joe’s baby. Or maybe Whole Foods. Then, a sixteen-hour long labor. And, another fourteen months for her to make a coherent sound that is not a fart.
Anyway, TL;DR, the heartless media sell-outs would do well to know that Jeff will hop on his fancy rocket and zoom away to some sub-orbit when the ice will melt leaving us peasants to fend for ourselves. I just wish they’d get their face out of his ass and smell the story that’s right under their nose. There are only so many times a baby can say her first word. That’s right. Once. So, ping me, maybe. DMs still open.
