Poor, poor babies. To be awash in mother’s comforting sounds as you grow, then to be ripped away from that primal sense of security and handed to these degenerates, never to feel that again. Jesus H.
No mother’s voice you’re already used to there to comfort you in this brand new, scary world. No familiar heartbeat to soothe you as you’re held. Only YouTube soy boys screeching at everything and each other because your newness and needs have impacted their cozy California lifestyle.
Countdown to them hiring a series of Mexican women to wrangle them because Piss-Bottles Dawson can’t be arsed to take care of himself, let alone two teeny tiny human beings.