Bathroom Monologue: Miniature Self-Soiling Noise Machine

The miniature self-soiling noise machine will be the hottest gift of the Christmas season. It’ll also be the hottest gift of August, because that’s nine months after winter, and people screw more when it’s cold and body heat is desirable.

Think of all the things it can do. It coos. It crawls. It self-soils. But there’s more:

-You can leave it alone for a weekend, and it will die.

-You can leave it in the car on a hot hour, and it will die.

-You can feed it something that it has no good reason to be allergic to, and it will die.

Research indicates one hundred percent of the market is addicted to drama. Let us tell you: there is no drama like a dead miniature self-soiling noise machine. If you’re one of the statistically negligible crowd that doesn’t care for miniature self-soiling noise machines, you can rejoice in the ease of its termination. Rejoice silently, though. Loving owners of miniature self-soiling noise machines may take offense.

The miniature self-soiling noise machine comes with a myriad of mini-game features. Play modes like, “Is she autistic?” and “What does Mommy wear when you spit up on her last clean blouse?” and the new, “Sure he’s vice president of a foreign aid charity, but the neighbor’s miniature self-soiling noise machine grew up to earn six figures. Where did I go wrong?”

The best thing is that a miniature self-soiling noise machine is free. Conception comes at no cost to you unless you find a really attractive hooker. We generate revenue through vanity projects, like healthcare, new shoes every four fucking months, college tuition, and the threat of imprisonment for abuse. Why, if you want, the miniature self-soiling noise machine can become the monetary bane of your existence! And if you decide it’s not for you, there’s no commitment. Simply move to Mexico and change your name.