photo: Judah Morford via photopin cc

Thanks for gathering here tonight for the roast of a very special one-year-old, where we congratulate the baby on staying alive for a whole 365 days.  I am your roastmaster: his mother. Just to warn you though, the language may get a little rough tonight—-but it’s not like he’ll understand, because he’s just a stupid baby, am I right?

No, I’m just kidding. The baby’s smart: when was the last time you got someone to feed you, drive you around and push your foreskin back for you?

No, seriously, baby, you’re not totally incapable. You can sit up, you can stand up, you let us know when you’re hungry. —- You also make the dog look like a goddamn genius.

The thing with a  baby is that you don’t want him to be too smart. You can have your breastfed, Baby Einstein kids all you like, but at least mine will be too slow to learn where we keep the gun.

Of course — we don’t actually have a gun in the house.—If someone breaks in, we want the baby to be stolen. Because he ruined our lives and we want to get rid of him!

No seriously, I’m thrilled tonight to be hosting as we roast the baby. It’s the very least I can do since I, you know, made him and he broke my body. I’d like to welcome everyone here tonight. There’s the father who used his penis to inseminate me and make the baby. So I’ll see you in hell. There’s his daycare provider, who spends more time with the baby than I do, because she’s a masochist. What I’m saying is that the baby is terrible!

The baby does have some good attributes though. He’s cute, he’s cuddly and he’s small, which means I can take him in a fight or throw him at someone before I steal their wallet.

Now, baby, I’m not saying you’re a failure. I’m just hoping soon though that we elect a President who can’t walk, talk or piss in a toilet so that you have someone to look up to. Oh wait: you’re so short, you look up to everyone! Even your dick is small. A fetus heard about how tiny it was and felt good about himself.

No, seriously, I love you, baby. I know you appreciate me, and you show it by throwing up on me, peeing on me, burping in my face and kneeing me in the vagina. It’s just like the night you were conceived!

But seriously, congratulations on those three teeth you got there. You *definitely* don’t look like a jack-o-lantern that somebody left out too long after Halloween.

I heard that you’re meeting your milestones though, and that’s great. You fed yourself a Cheerio yesterday, so congratulations. You must be feeling pretty proud of yourself for someone who frequently sits in his own feces.

God, roasting you, baby, is so easy, it’s like shooting fish in a barrel. Shooting baby fish in a baby barrel. This is a tiny barrel, I’m talking about, and the fish are babies, like you. You suck.

What I mean to say is I love you, honey. Happy birthday! Now, please welcome Lisa Lampanelli.