GIVE ME A BABYCCINO OR I'LL SUSPEND YOUR ASS FROM THE COOP

Photo via www.sprudge.com

Me: "I'm taking this for FIPS. It will be short and sweet and someone may die."

Kerri, FIPS Managing Ed: "The New Yorker was right: our neighborhood IS dying..."

Seriously, I'm not usually the one who's like, "Fuck yer babies!" becuase, like, one day I'm going to be one of those pain-in-the-ass parents who only keeps organic kale and locally-made seitan in her house, depriving her offspring of authentic world experience while flying a vegan flag above my brownstone. So, as someone with a Bugaboo in her future, I get it.

But like, fuck yer babies this time.

I can't even bring myself to type the word "babyccino" more than once, so I'll have to let you read about the "mini decaf cappuccinos or frothy cups of steamed milk and foam" directly from the Brooklyn Paper's story, lest I end it all mid-sentence. (Much to the chagrin of many of you, I'm not going anywhere...yet.) I'm not even sure I care so much about babies drinking pint-size yuppie drinks as much as the fact that people are singing their babyccino alliegance loud 'n' proud. If you're ordering a steamer, just call it a steamer, for fuck's sake.

What's the deal, friends? Do you agree with me, or am I irrationally WTFing (again)? And are you the dad ordering the babyccino to go at Café Regular every morning? Oh, Park Slope, don't become Portland. For the love of god.