Last summer in Korea, I saw a sign for The Baby Lounge; a gaudy neon baby bottle flickered in its window while a throbbing dub-step remix of Baby Beluga beat on its door. I can only assume the club was filled with "cool" infants, kicking to the music from their patent leather exersaucers in between sips of apple juice-tinis. I shook my head at the dissolution of pastel colors, stuffed dinosaurs, and fleece blankies. Last Thanksgiving, I walked in on Charlotte, Princess H's favorite doll, like this:

Apparently, her habit cost her a role in Toy Story 3.
Where have guilelessness and naivete fled? Have the uncorrupted and the new lost their sanctity? I was impelled to philosophize on innocence, sin, and their respective natures. I worried that my dear niece and nephews may have been poorly influenced by their delinquent toys or their overly-matured peers. I started to see signs of their moral corrosion everywhere I turned.
Just look:

Keep on eye on those babies.
Otherwise they'll end up like my bum brother C.