It was hour #37 of what started as merely a mild mannered exhibition of all things for pregnant women to spend money on, but as the convention wore on and the pound cake and all natural vegetable juice reserves ran dry, that’s when the prego chaos began to erupt…
The fury was winded yet relentless, and all of the aroma therapy and acupuncture in the room couldn’t soothe the savage rage of 1,000 ornery women, their claws filled with gift bags as they scrambled for a first come, first served designer breast pump giveaway that would make them the envy, but also the sworn enemy of every other swelled up and salty prego in a three aisle radius.
The men, hopelessly and hilariously outnumbered, admittedly never stood a chance against their wives and collective brooding brethren. Demoralized after being demoted to human mules, these already defeated warriors were the first to go when estrogen and HCG levels boiled over, trampling everything in their path without so much as a “Pardon me…”
By the time the SWAT team arrived, the convention center itself had succumbed to the horde; within a day’s time, the military watched on as the pregos overtook the entire city. An unstoppable, peanut butter and pickle-craving mass that could only be slowed by loaded stuffed nachos and movies on the Hallmark channel, their thunderous stamp on the earth would serve as a warning for generations to come.
It’s never just a baby convention. The only time a woman’s consumerism should be stroked that much in one setting is at a heavily regulated and tightly policed wedding show.