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All babies are beautiful.

And all their mothers are virgins.

C’mon Stevie Wonder, you know that just ain’t true. Look at your newbie. Yes, yes, he’s precious. He’s precious, based on the novel Push by Sapphire.

Seriously. Does your heir look a little queer?

Is your offspring looking a little off?

Is the son you grew kinda gruesome too?

It’s okay. Not every baby is a babe.

So what if Anne Geddes would put your baby waaaaaay in the background. Perhaps she would encapsulate your lil’ tyke in a big tulip with just his foot sticking out. She’d probably insist he wear the little wool hat… with the face mask.

Listen up, ye makers of ugmo minis: there is hope. Allow me to demonstrate.

This is Max when he was just two months of age…

My, that’s a cute… elephant.

My kid was a pizza with male pattern baldness.

A pimply pint.

The star of the first half of a Clearasil commercial.

Such cruel irony. I deliver this child drug-free and he winds up looking like a crystal meth junkie.

And check out those jowls — I had given birth to Winston freakin’ Churchill!

But boy did I love him. I mean, how could I not, with such a kick-ass impersonation of John C. Reilly. His first full sentence? “You must call me Night Hawk.”

I was recently contacted by a blogger in Oregon who had come across the shot above when googling “ugly baby.” First of all, yay for search engine optimization. Second of all, ouch. He was about to blog about ugly babies and apparently mine was the epitome of ugly to compliment his words, from all the ugly babies to be found on the World Wide Web. So he asked my permission to use the photo. I said yes, of course, as long as he included my url to drive a bit of Oregonian traffic my way. Check out his blog, Oh God My Wife Is German. His German wife (whose hilarious utterances are top fodder for his blog) had seen an ugly baby with its mother and said, “Her baby looks just like her, which is not a present.”

But my lil’ gremlin was morphing right before my eyes. Within a few short months, his acne cleared up, his hair grew in, and he gave up the crystal, cold turkey. (He’s strictly apple sauce now.)

Soon, my son was God’s gift to midget women everywhere. The little girls at daycare even started putting their phone numbers in his backpack. Of course, it’s impossible to figure out which order the magnetic digits go in, so he never calls any of the little floosies.

And this week, Sir Maximus Handsomest made his big debut in a campaign for GM Goodwrench. Check it out now: the funk soul ginger.

Score for Team Red, fo shizzle.

But don’t worry. I won’t let the fame go to his carrot-top.

And if Anne Geddes calls, she’s a little too late. The only flower that’s gonna capture Turbo Ginger now is the world’s largest and toothiest Venus Flytrap.

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