Welcome to Alice Column, in which Alice Laussade writes stories about things on (roughly) the same day of (roughly) every week, making it (roughly) a column. Got an idea for a column? Start your own blog and write it up, you lazy shit.
When you hear the name of the store "Buy Buy Baby," you immediately assume that this is a store that sells babies. So, you walk into their store and politely ask, "Pardon me, can you point me in the direction of the Look Who's Talking 2 babies? I'd like to price compare those with the Baby Alien that Comes out of the Mom's Mouth in Alien baby."
They look at you like you're an idiot. They inform you that you cannot, in fact, buy a baby from them. You decide that the service here is shit, so you head to Babies "R" Us. Surely if Toys "R" Us sells toys, Babies "R" Us must sell babies. Babies "r" them, after all.
As soon as you walk in the door of Babies "R" Us, you know something's up. They're not at all trying to sell you any type of baby. Maybe their specialty isn't human babies -- maybe it's baby animals or baby carrots. Unfortunately, as it turns out, their specialty is not selling human babies, lion babies or fish babies -- their specialty is selling baby shit.
Inside the automatic doors of this newly discovered baby hell, diaper boxes line the walls, floor to three-story-high ceiling. Every employee speaks in a voice so high and soothing that only dolphins can hear it. They hand you a list of "must haves" for your baby that is 450 pages long and leather-bound. Your soul dies a little as you spot a hand-stitched $12 baby bib that says, "My mom is hotter than your mom." Someone's baby smile-shits at you.
On the baby bottle aisle, you see the Tommy Tippee Closer To Nature Perfect Prep Machine. It's essentially a Keurig for babies. The packaging brags that this product will help you mix formula for your baby "in under two minutes." The product does not measure out formula -- the user does that. So for a mere $149.99, you can own a product that will heat then unheat your water more slowly than it could ever possibly take you to mix the bottle of formula yourself. And this is not the most ridiculous baby product in the store, by far.
You look for the exit and realize you're approximately one mile away from the sliding doors to freedom. A motherless flock of toddlers wobbles past you, smelling of expired-milk piss and Pixie Stix. Someone tries to sell you a Babies "R" Us membership card. A woman wearing a baby strapped to her tits hands you her mommy business card and says you should be friends. She likes your hair. She wants to set up a play date. Get. Out.
Babies "R" Us cannot be trusted. Fear it with every fiber in your being.