Ahhhh…“The good old days.” I’m sure you’ve heard folks utter those words as they whimsically look into the distance and think back to their boy or girlhood days of yore, skipping through fields of sunflowers and gripping buckets of fresh antibiotic-free milk for mama, donned in a papoose, and papa, working on something with clanking and cranking tools. For most of my life, I couldn’t help but feel that people are full of shit and these memories are fabrications created by crazy people who were fucked in thebarn as kids. When the hell were these “The Good Old Days?” It seems they are currently a reference to the first half of the 20th century in America. Well, I suppose if you were straight, white, and a man the old days had very arguably more potential for good. Although, it seems white men during that time were emotionless drunks who beat and owned their wives and treated their children like insects. No. It takes a lot more than some confused white people to make days good and old. Therefore, after lazily, randomly, and confusingly consulting the internet, I do believe I have pinpointed the shit out of “The Good Old Days,” AND exactly what made those old days good, and if y’all agree, I’ll do a TED TALK on the subject. Allow me to whisk you away to 1930’s London where an American-patented device jutted from the windows of buildings and high rises by the thousands like awesome mini-prisons or “smart-playpens” as I like to think of them. Yes folks, I’m talking about a little known gem they called the “Baby Cage.”
Imagine you’re a nanny, mommy, babysitter, or au pair, and you’re living in a small flat in 1930’s London. Everything is in black and white. Shit’s moving all stuttery and skipping frames and shit. No iPads or MP3 players. No Facebook or Twitter. No Likes or Up-Votes. Nothing. Just you, the destroyed economy, news of the rising Nazi Party, and to top it all off, a screaming fucking little vomit machine. Now listen here, Junior, mommy only has so many hours in a day to drink bathtub gin and crotchet the fuckin’ doilies and you’re screaming is fucking my shit up! How the hell will people in the future EVER see these as “The Good Old Days” when they look and smell and sound like THIS? There HAS to be a better way. Suddenly, you look out the window of your 40th story apartment, and there, hanging outside, as beautiful as a Vietnam-made red, white, and blue flag, bolted to the outside window frame, is your shiny new freshly lead-painted silver baby cage. Looks like your British hubby really does love you…now you know why he doesn’t bruise your face!
Suddenly, your window to the world has become a doorway to peace and quiet. All you had to do was put down some newspaper, a water bowl, some mashed food, and then shove the little bastard out there and shut the blinds. On a side note, this is why British old people are notoriously unafraid of heights. That’s not a peer-reviewed fact, just a personal astute observation. However, to be clear, admittedly, I don’t know anything about British people and even less about babies. I learned recently on the local news programs that they die if you leave them alone in the car with the windows up in the summer…babies, I mean. Not British people. Apparently, they don’t do well in excessive heat and sun. Not very sturdy. Definitely not the folks you want parachuting into the desert to shoot terrorists. Which is a shame because they’re small and can fit into any cave-nook and cave-cranny…British people, I mean. Not babies. So if this masterful invention, that makes sliced bread and fire look like some hack piece of junk your stoned one-armed uncle Billiam drunkenly nailed together in the garage one night, ever makes a much needed comeback, you’re going to want to dress that shit up for the new age. But I say, “Why wait for a comeback!? You can do it yourself!” Remember, the 1930’s in London were good and old days, but thanks to incredible technological breakthroughs, we’ve got pollution and holes in the ozone layer to deal with. But it also means we can take “The Good Old Days” of yesteryear and move on into “The Great New Old Days!”
Before we sort of build this dream together, listen up all you gents and deadbeat dads out there. This isn’t the 1930’s anymore. Women aren’t just sitting around knitting and shit. They aren’t just going to take care of your farting shitting kids while you party down at the local watering hole jabbering about that one time years ago when you did that one thing that could’ve lead to something impressive but didn’t. They are MMA fighters who run for president, and they will kick the shit out of you and throw your dick in the river. Women have important shit to do too, and I know I don’t have to say this, but you don’t want to hire someone to come over and watch your seed anymore with the tsunami of kid-fuckers in the news today. It’s time technology took over in the caretaking department in a big way to loosen up your schedge™. So, here’s how you bring the “Good Old Days” back, bigger and gooder than ever, ensuring that you can live your life the way you want and most likely not go to prison!
To begin, get yourself a bunch of iPads. There are websites that give them away for free. Just check your AOL mailbox every so often for offers. Once you have the iPads, put one on the side and turn on some party music. I recommend Andrew W.K. or Kottonmouth Kings. After you’ve accomplished this, pour yourself a drink and hit the net hard. Probably Craigs List. There’s good people giving away all kinds of weird shit on there who will totally come to your house and you’re going to need some things and the less you have to get up and go anywhere, the better. Find a hefty dog cage, one that’s large enough to rivet to the outside of your window, turning the window itself into a suspended metal outdoor domain if you will. Don’t worry about what floor you’re on. The kid should learn that in life the sky is the limit, so I say, the higher you are the more chance you have of your kid becoming emperor someday. If you suspect you’re buying your cage from a reformed dog-fighting ringleader, try to make sure there’s no pee or blood on it. Keep it classy. I know what you’re thinking; Rick, is that all?! Upon hearing you in my mind, I think-shout back, Shit, back in the day, the bulk of your job would be finished. You’d be standing there with a kid out of your hair, openly hanging out above the bustling city in the fresh air where it belongs and a “Mission Accomplished” sign over your head on a boat. BUT, as I said earlier, those days are gone. There’s more.
Next, you want to get a shitload of Plexiglas, some duct tape, and a huge water feeder, preferably something appropriate for a chinchilla or some other large adorable rodent. OH! And for fuck sake don’t forget umbrellas. I know we’re trying to avoid spending money and/or leaving the house, but you can get one of these for a dollar from a homeless dude on the streets of New York and probably other places too. My recommendation; buy a shitload because one gust of wind over eight mph and that umbrella looks like a prolapsed asshole (listen, this is your kid…sometimes you gotta spend the money to do what is right).
So to speed this up I’ll just say WHAM BAM line the thing with iPads, drill some holes in the plexiglass for air and tape all this shit and the other shit to the cage and voila! There may never be a reason for the little guy to ever come out again. Also, don’t be afraid to get creative. It’s a hip-hop world. I know I’d want my baby cage to be extreme! I’d want it to literally drip with Mountain Dew, Doritos dust, and game! TIP: Use ALL the duct tape…you can go to jail if one of these things, AKA, “babies,” dies out there! Did you know that!? I mean, fuck…it’s not like they pay taxes or anything. But you know…liberals. #amirite Hopefully, if you’re lucky and there are still birds in your town, maybe one will make a nest out there and befriend your little DNA carbon copy, so they’ll learn about nature.
You know what? I see the future, and I’m smiling a gummy smile back at myself and giving a thumbs up. I’m wrinkled, wearing a diaper, and have dementia. My 20-year-old wife is miserably trying to stop her newborn baby, whom she conceived with the pool boy, to stop crying and squirting stuff, but I’m happy. Want to know why? Because after she spends her obligatory nine minutes at the nursing home jiggling her tits at me to ensure she inherits my millions, I’ll go back to a life of apple sauce, Viagra, and hot GILFS, but she’ll have to go home to this never-ending geyser of stinky fluids and loud noise. But as I said, I’m happy…because she’ll never know what it was like when I was that age…back in 2014, or as I like to call it, “The Good Old Days.”