The Spawn of Houdini
(Note: I, Brolo, locked Skydog in the dungeon so I could do pic of the week this time! Hah hah! Don't worry, Skydog's regularly-scheduled program will return next week... assuming the black-hearted Beast of the Pits doesn't get to him first!)
In the eyes of a young single man like myself, few notions are as abjectly horrifying as the prospect of holding an infant human. It's almost instinctual, the way a bachelor recoils from an offered child-parcel with hands upturned in a fight-or-flight posture, face contorted in a mixed expression of repugnance and terror, nervous chuckles and stuttered no-thank-you's escaping from between trembling lips. From his reaction, you might think he was being asked to carry a basket full of pit vipers stirred into frenzy by a prodding sadist.
There are compelling reasons that we steer clear of these swaddling babes, not the least of which is the fact that infants are veritable geysers of fluidic waste. They spew and poo with the unpredictable frequency of a flock of agitated seagulls and the unflinching precision of a seasoned marksman. Any man who enters an infant's immediate vicinity – without first equipping a Kevlar-reinforced hazmat suit – is asking for a battery of stains that would make even Lindsay Lohan blush.
But the primary reason for a single man's fear of child-hoisting is the value of the baby. Children are priceless, irreplaceable treasures, more valuable in the eyes of the parents than all the rest of the universe combined. In addition, these seemingly inert and helpless creatures are in fact world-renowned contortionists and escape artists, able to squirm free of the most secure restraints ever devised, all the while giggling behind a cherubic mask and disgorging unending spouts of biological detritus. To a bachelor, holding a baby is like carrying the Autobot Matrix across a decayed rope bridge, over a raging lava pit, during a force-5 hurricane, knowing full well that he will experience a seizure at any moment. This is not a responsibility that a carefree young man is willing to adopt – not until he can afford a false passport and portage to the third-world country of his choice, at least.
And so, knowing full well the horrors of holding an infant aloft, I am nothing short of staggered by Loco_Igvan's unimaginable bravery. His revulsion at the thought of carrying the child is still plainly etched upon his face, but his stolid grasp on the Stormwind orphan reflects the iron will that has enabled him to conquer his instinctual phobias. Bravo to you, Sir Loco_Igvan! You are a better man than I!
P.S. – I'm glad he's wearing an Alliance Crest shirt. It would be a travesty to allow baby sputum to deface the glory of the Horde emblem. For the Warchief!!
Lock your S-foils in attack position and melt your enemy's face with a riff like a laser blast. Metal.
Pic of the Week
Long ago, in days of Yore, there was one called Skydog. With the power of his keyboard he bestowed the worthy few with their deserved praise! We carry on his legacy while he is busy sharpening up on his dragon-slaying and information tech dominance.