Baby oil

I can only explain based on what I’ve seen firsthand, but do not claim any of the skills or expertise that are the hallmark our good friends with training in the paleontological sciences. Now that you know I lack the lexicon to completely describe the very strange and exorbitantly sad circumstances which have come to pass, I can share the weird experiences which heretofore have only been whispered furtively behind cupped hands in the shadows of the hallowed halls of knowledge at

Long before the ascent and eventual dominance of our australopithecene progenitors, and contrary to the revisionist prehistory you will find in any elementary school library, our lands and oceans were ruled long ago not merely by our dinosaur brethren, but also by our true ancestors, the small pink, hairless, fleshy bundles of joy that crawled about around the precreateceous landscape.

After eons of wary co-existence, the transient wandering of our continental habitats brought saurian and infant populations to their inevitable collision. Tyranosaurs could not help but devour the odd dim sum-sized primate. Triceratops by the thousands shuffled off their scaly mortal coils after stumbling on innumerable sippy cups, many left not-quiet-coincidentally near bogs and cliff edges.

Sensing the inherent disadvantage that accompanied their lack of digits in opposition, all reptilekind sought to eradicate the cuddly, wide-eyed, warm-blooded menace in one final gustatorial orgy. Had they laid their plans with greater wariness, they would have noted the carefully-concealed audio monitor secreted among the pteridophytes. Their battle plans were doomed to failure from the start. Before daylight quickened the cardiac rhythms of the dinosaur ranks, the babies launched their attack.

Gurgling with joy, the infant strategists seized on a long-known cold-blooded allergy previously exploited only as a dim-spirited prank at the rare cross-species social event. Equipping their fleet of multi-hued mobiles with the deadly compound, they sent their whirligigs aloft in a vast cumulus exhalation. Spreading with the the leading edge of dawn, the spinning amusements expelled particularized iridium which descended on the hapless reptiles with silent malice. Their extinction was painful, and while not immediate, erupted with such rapidity and efficacy to even shock infantkind.

Seeing what terror they had wrought, first one, then another, then another baby began to wail with the keening grief that comes from knowing one act — one singular moment of unforeseen omnipotence — was at once sublimely effective, inexpressibly savage, and irrevocable. They wept as they crawled over mounds of saurian flesh. They mourned as they pushed the remains of their defeated foes into gaping pits. Their tears flowed over the dinosaur-free lands and streamed into vast lakes. Lacrimal torrents swirled and swelled, pooling thousands of fathoms deep where drainage was blocked by rocks, reptile bodies, and piles of squeaky toys.

The salty seas soaked through the cracked layers of bedrock and pooled in underground reservoirs as deep as the sorrow spent to compel their melancholy excretion. In the unplumbable eons that have transpired since, the fluid has been compressed and heated into a supple, viscous lubricant. Our foremost expert on Baby prehistory, Hans Gerber, sunk the first exploratory well to tap the field of distilled baby tears in 1937. It is a cruelty of the highest order to use this elixir, no matter how well-meaning, to massage and sooth the babies of today. They remember.

Baby Oil

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