Anne Geddes, you freak me the Fuck out.

Dearest Anne:

Let me first say I undoubtedly respect your abilities as a photographer. You have a unique vision, and you work hard to further your goal of.. well, whatever it may be. You certainly know how to develop film. I could even go so far as to say you are peerless in this category, but upon further reflection, I've decided I cannot substantiate this with any discernible evidence.


The sanctity of mother and child is indisputable; I for one would never deign to blaspheme said union with ridicule and scorn. I believe, and I actually thought long and hard about this, that, well, children are the future. I think that we, as upstanding members of civilized society, should teach them well and eventually let them lead the way. Of highest import, however, is that we show them all the beauty they possess inside.

And, well, it wouldn't hurt to give them a sense of pride; it could even make it easier. And when the time arrives when second guessing and perhaps concern begin to creep in, we can always let the children's laughter remind us how it used to be.

So I was walking in the mall, being accosted by cart people trying to sell me new Cellular phone service (Please, just shut the fuck up you fucking annoying fucks - oh, and eat a bowl of dick while you're at it), and I come across the new Anne Geddes calendars. And I admit, though intrigued, I was freaked the fuck out.








What happens when this guy stands up? BAM! Baby death.







Oh, how sweet! BABY PINATAS. Donde Esta mi stick y blindfold? WHACK WHACK WHACK








And just what is happening here? Who are you, Marv Marinovich, trying to breed the next super athlete? Let the Child BE! No one is that flexible! Oh wait, this must be the child of Sri Pattabhi Jois. Or is this kid just DEAD? Is THAT what it takes to get your child into a GEDDES?

Maybe it's just me.