||Awwww, you and your snookums have decided your unrivaled sphere of love will be expanded, completed and made even more joyous by bringing a child into the world.
You are "procreating" according to an ovulation schedule, had the den converted into a nursery, and already set up a college fund for little Dylan or Aurora. So many big plans, hopes and dreams--and the blessed event ensures your families' bloodlines continue for yet another generation.
You self-absorbed, egomaniacal, immeasurably ignorant bastards!!! I THINK I'M GOING TO PUKE! Does your local newspaper not have headlines?
Sure, go ahead and ignore the scientific data that conclusively proves there is an 82-percent likelihood your bundle of joy will end up being a serial killer turning tricks in some filthy alley for enough drugs to rationalize a "career" in gangbang pornography. And never mind that the romance-ruining cash vacuum will despise every single atom of you in 15 years, intentionally getting arrested while drunk-driving your car into an elm to heap shame upon you.
You're the only beings in the universe, so pay no heed to the precious oxygen the mini-monster will consume, the plants and animals that will be slaughtered to feed the urchin. (You think apples grow on trees, pal?!?)
Be sure not to grow hostile when Foster--who soooo doesn't deserve it--gets promoted over you because massive sleep deprivation has dulled your competency to the point the Human Resources Department has attached a "Hopeless" note to your file and placed you on the short list for the next round of layoffs.
And, phwoooo, what an odor. That baby makes the whole house smell like a hobo died in the crawlspace.
But there is no need to simply take my word for it, even though I'm never wrong about anything. As always, we can turn to movies for proper guidance and inarguable proof.
First up, let's look at Santa Claus Conquers The Martians (1964). Any guesses on whom the kids side with in this one? That's right, the morbidly obese layabout who enslaves the vertically challenged, forcing them to manufacture toys year-round so the attention whore can get all the glory the one night of the year he actually does any work, cruelly pushing poor reindeers to exhaustion by making them tow tons across the entire surface of the planet in just a few hours.
Why else would one live on the North Pole and not simply rent a jet, other than to take sadistic glee in the discomfort of subordinates and make escape virtually impossible? Lord knows what twisted disgusting indignities Mrs. Claus has endured.
Yet this is whom the children pull for, rather than a group of nice visitors from our nearest Milky Way neighbor, here merely to take over planetary management and make the world a better place. That just goes to show how utterly evil and soulless "innocent" tykes truly are.
The invade, er, aliens in Gamera vs Guiron (1969, aka Attack Of The Monsters) had the right idea. After wiring a couple of snot-noses to a contraption capable of monitoring thoughts, the visitors wisely concluded that the ultimate method for learning all about the planet--or at least what these natives know of it--is to eat the kids' brains.
Reasonable enough. With billions inhabiting Earth (for now), who's going to miss a pair of nose-pickers? Image Besides, we wouldn't wish to insult our guests by turning down a simple request.
In fact, they place the boy-brat into a head-holder, shave his noggin, fire up a drilling device and come this close to sucking on some cerebellum when...the Manor On Movies No Spoilers Policy prevents me from revealing what happens next, but it turns a gleeful scifi romp into a heartbreaking horror outing. (Hint: no child character was harmed in the making of this motion picture.)
STILL want to fertilize an ovum? Then I have no choice but to layeth Dondi (1961) upon thee, one of the first comic strips to be adapted to the big screen as a drama.
Dondi is an orphan in post-WW2 Italy, with a vocal delivery so nasal, you'll find yourself constantly struck with the urge to pass tissues to your screen. Because young actor David Kory couldn't muster up a Chico-Marx-style goombah accent, the screenwriters concocted what might be described as "irreparably broken English" for the boy to babble, an irritatingly infectious vocal style you'll find yourself mimicking afterwards...whether you want to or not.
After about a half-hour of "Quiet, Mister Dog. They'll finding us here, they sending you back, then us both lonesome" and "Every time you're coming here, you're looking more prettier," you will be moved to gently place a hand on each of David's shoulders.
Then slide them closer together so that you're proficiently strangling the life out of the squirt.
However, to us junkfilm junkies that's the lure of Dondi: It could have been just another dollop of forgettable family fare with sparse appeal to anyone over the age of twelve. Instead, the pint-sized paisan is so thoroughly annoying, you'll find yourself singing the Ramones "Beat On The Brat" while taking unbridled delight in any misfortune the pest endures.
How effective is this movie as a cautionary tale? If Angelina Jolie ever sees Dondi, she very well may give orphans back!
But, pay me no mind, blow off all of the above, and have a stinkball or three, the hell with the irreparable damage your selfish acts will cause. When Guirons colleagues return, they're going to need some feeding stock anyway.
Author's note: As always, you can see this review (and dozens of others) in it's snazzy photo-illustrated version at ManorOnMovies.com.