Our mother couldn't make it to the grocery store and back without having to examine wallet-sized photos of someone's dribbling, popeyed baby.
"Now that's different," she'd say. "A living baby. All my grandchildren have been ground up for fertilizer or whatever it is they do with the aborted fetuses. It puts them under my feet but keeps them out of my hair, which is just the way I like it. You tell that daughter of yours to keep up the good work.'
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