86 Formula for disaster

“Baby sip-sip too-too much-much. Baby stop-stop, okay-kay?” The other baby’s parents wondered why their little one was imbibing formula to such an extent. They fell short of taking his bottle away, because of all the compliments pouring in about a model child who didn’t dribble one drop. As Granny Guss might conclude, “Eggo, they are model parents.” That assessment carried much sway in San Anselmo. Merely good parents would have said “No!” and put the baby bottle out of reach. But the other baby’s parents relied on shoved-up smiles and continuous optimism for a patina that secured their presence in the community. It glossed over the father’s ridiculous job, the mother’s slipshod soul, made them just barely waterproof, compared to the anathema of avenues Alder and Yolanda, the bottomless Gusses, soaked in opprobrium.
“Baby not ‘stop-stop,'” the other baby mimicked acidly. He had plans, but had to admit any action at all sometimes seemed futile when one was stuck with two idiots for parents.
He gave baby Drew one more thumbs-up.
“Cool move,” he gurgled.

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