Cory 1-844-332-2639 et 407
It all started innocently enough. My friend, Gary – a man whose beard had a beard and whose idea of a challenging morning was deciding between two different artisanal coffee blends – casually asked if I could “help out” for a few weeks. He’d apparently aggravated an old sports injury, which sounded legitimate at the time. My visions were of fetching him an extra-large pizza and maybe a few remote controls. Never did I envision myself becoming, for lack of a better term, his “Mama.”
The first clue was the distinct odor of Johnson’s Baby Powder mixed with something vaguely earthy. Then came the sights. A crib, oversized bottles, a mountainous pile of what I initially mistook for industrial-grade pillow stuffing, but which quickly resolved into absurdly large, plastic-backed diapers. And there, nestled amidst a sea of plush toys and a particularly garish cartoon blanket, was Gary. Not the beard-having, coffee-snob Gary I knew, but a version clad in a pastel blue onesie, sucking on a pacifier the size of a teacup, gazing up at me with eyes that seemed far too innocent for a man who owed taxes.
