If There Were a Biff-let, I Promise You, He'd Be Able to Take Him

For this baby watching amateur, there's only one thing that makes any kid worthy of my attention, and that’s stool production. We're talking quality, quantity, and nostril-singeing bouquet - and that's why ounce for steaming ounce, my nephew, little Tommy Weintraub of Jersey City, NJ just FLUSHES the competition.

I mean, this kid was born to crap. And I'm not being figurative about that, either. I'm telling you, the very second Tommy slid out of my sister-in-law's lady hole, he opened up from both ends and hollered like hell while pinching off a trucker-sized loaf .... I swear, I may be biased because I'm his uncle and all, but to me, Tommy was hollering out to the very angels, 'Hello, world! Meet the Master Scat-Blaster, the Kaiser of Scheiße, because I'm here to POOOOP!'

The Master Scat-Blaster's review is in the middle of the page, but I recommend you scan the others as well. Honestly, you don't want to miss a baby story that begins with "I once watched Madison’s father stumble out of a dive bar with a leathery old whore so he could sodomize her in the back seat of his Jetta."