Ohmigod, I didn't realize how stupid my mommy and daddy are. I assumed that because they made a living and drove cars and cooked food they had to be intelligent, but now I discover the opposite is true. They're dumb as two piles of rocks.

When I was like three minutes old I noticed they were on their cellphones all the time -- like constantly, even when we're eating dinner -- so I waved my arms and gurgled in hopes they'd buy me one. I figured it would do really cool stuff, like let me read the news or call Anderson Cooper or check stock prices easily. I cry and shriek and wail and finally they get the hint, and I swear to God I have never been so disappointed in my entire life. These cellphones that all these adults are attached to are just little plastic pieces of shit.

This horrible little gift really opened my eyes. Believe it or not, its intellectual apogee is a game called Find The Fruit. When daddy was on his phone I thought he had to call work or see what was up with the flooding in southeast Asia, but no. Instead he's all, like, "I need some mental stimulation. Let's see if I can press a button next to a picture of a strawberry."

Then there's a piano mode where you hit a button and it plays a plinky kiddy tune. I swear to God, another button makes drum noises for like thirty minutes. Really. That's it. Did we learn nothing from the seventies? I guess not. I'm picturing daddy at a Led Zeppelin concert yelling, "Hey, stop singing and shut off that damn guitar and let me hear from John Fucking Bonham again!"

Another button plays a recording of Mickey Mouse. A recording. First, you've got to be an idiot to want to talk to an animated character; and second, there's something wrong in your head if you don't realize the whole dialog is canned. You say something like, "I swear to God, sometimes I find it really difficult to cope," and Mickey doesn't answer, "I'm sorry to hear that; is there someone really supportive among your friends?" It doesn't deter mommy. All the time she's talking into her cellphone like there's a sentient being on the other end. I want to say, "Well, Mommy, what's Mickey up to today?" because I'm pretty sure that like yesterday and the day before he'll be all like, "Hi, this is Mickey Mouse! How many years old are you?" But I only hold up this many fingers so there ain't no chance of that.

I swear to God, this pathetic crap was the worst gift ever, and I'm not forgetting when Aunt Barbara gave me that Hello Kitty toaster cover. It truly shook me to my core. These folks are in charge of my life -- my wellbeing, my upbringing, my education -- so finding out that when times get tough they desperately need to hear a cartoon mouse squeal, "Hot diggety! It's a phone call!" and then rabbit on to nobody for the next sixty minutes makes me want to grab my rattle and hit the road.

Anyway, I decided this was a toxic situation so I came up with a plan. The next time mommy or daddy gave me a bath, I'd "accidentally" knock their phone off the side of the tub and into the water. Yes, it's a little patronizing, but I'm not exactly going to have an intellectual discussion with folks who spend half the day hitting buttons that play Twinkle Twinkle Little Star. Besides, this plastic piece of junk with like three LEDs and a tinny speaker can't cost more than a cappuccino so it's no biggie there. Sure, they'll probably swear and scream and order another one but if I can get them to spend five days without chatting with a nonexistent animal maybe I'll finally get some respect for them and actually think about pooping in the toilet for a change.