TEAM LAST CALL

The flu? Worse! Anthrax? Way worse!

No, this is a virus far more terrifying that hits much closer to home. It’s name: baby fever.

Everywhere I look, babies are popping up like bread from a toaster. My sister, co-workers, friends – it seems like everyone I know is suddenly plummeting into the dark abyss known as parenthood, the new mothers glowing beautifully, the new fathers walking around in a daze like someone just gave them a surprise root canal. And the fever is spreading faster than STDs on Kid Rock’s tour bus.

Pop! Oh no, there’s another baby!

Pop, pop! Oh man, sounds like twins!

Pop! Oh, whew! That one was just the sound of Janet Jackson’s Super Bowl halftime show.

My entire world is turning into a big game of Whack-a-mole. Only instead of moles, it’s babies, and instead of whacking them on a head with a mallet, you have to tickle their chins and say things like, “What a widdle bitty cutesy bootsy boo!” This can be a little uncomfortable for someone whose vocabulary doesn’t normally include words like “widdle” and “bootsy.” But spend more than five minutes in a room with a baby, and you’ll be talking that way, too. It’s a proven fact that, in the presence of babies, our IQs automatically regress to that of a monkey and/or President.

Friends who just a few months ago were capable of holding entire conversations about how people who drive Hummers should be fed to lions are now reduced to goofy-talk about who would win in a battle between the Power Rangers and the Powerpuff Girls. Which is so stupid, because the Powerpuff Girls’ ability to fly clearly gives them the advantage.

There are only a few things left in this world capable of snapping our poor friends out of their sleep-deprived stupor; by far the most exciting of these is when the baby “makes.” One whiff of baby doody, and our friends start doing cartwheels up the stairs like they just won the lottery, their eyes dilated in parental glee. “Oh, look! Baby made a poopsey-woopsey! Hurray for poopsey-woopsey” they holler, shoving the diaper up to my face. “Would you like to see the poopsey-woopsey?” No, I would not like to see the poopsey-woopsey.

We have entered baby mode, when even the most NASCAR-watching man develops a little lisp (pronounced “widdle wisp”) and addresses the baby in a falsetto squeal. “Apple” becomes “apple-wapple.” “Blanket” becomes “blankey-wankey.” “Beef jerky” becomes “Jeff, I can’t believe you just fed that to my baby!”

Now, I don’t really have a problem with the whole concept of having babies, provided that you keep them properly muzzled and caged. It’s just a little unsettling to think that my friends are the ones producing them. It’s like the first time you realize a teenage girl would find it officially icky if you started talking to her at a party; you always knew it was coming some day, but it’s still a kick in the old-man shins when it happens.

The fact is, these babies are multiplying faster than ignorance at a Toby Keith concert. I’ve been trying to resign myself to the fact that I’m entering a new phase of life, that inevitably my social events will involve not red wine, but red juice; not tailgating parties, but Teletubbies; not dinner and a movie, but karaoke singalongs to Disney DVDs while snacking on the Cheerios the baby spilled between the couch cushions.

My wife and I plan to have children ourselves in a few years, but I have some concerns I’d like to address first. Among them is the fact that my little Jack Russell puppy finds babies to be both chewable and delicious, second only to the cat’s litterbox on the doggy taste-scale. So obviously we can’t have a baby yet, because our dog might eat it, and that could make his tummy really upset.

A second concern is that my baby might not be cuter than my friends’ babies. There are those who argue that all babies are cute, and that you love them no matter what they look like. These people are lying, and probably have ugly babies. The truth is, having a baby is a real crap-shoot. As my wife and I have witnessed, even our most beautiful friends are capable of producing a baby that looks like Elmer Fudd sucking on a lemon and vinegar popsicle. (For any of my friends reading this, of course I’m talking about someone else’s baby. Yours is cute as a button. Wutton.)

So until science has invented a dog-proof, ugly-proof baby, I’ll do everything in my power to avoid this new and powerful strain of baby fever. Although babies can be awfully cute. And fun. And loveable. And ... oh, crap.