Right, mock them if you want to, but look back in time to the summer of 1978.
It was a hot Saturday in Bridgeport, Connecticut, the kind of day where the air pulls the sweat out of you by the cupful but doesn’t have the grace to move it off your skin. The minor exertion of just pushing her stroller through the park had taxed poor Margaret. She’d been trapped in the air conditioned confines of the bungalow too long and wanted to “get some air” with the screaming, homely child she was imprisoned with. How could she know that the air outside would be even more stifling than the suburban nightmare she’d been living?
This and other ironies were on her mind as she found the energy to push the stroller, step by step, through the swelter. Her thoughts became heavier and moved slower, though, as her brain, marinated in acrid regret, dully roasted beneath the oppressive sun.
A bus! That’s the way home, she thought. It was only a mile or so from where she’d started, but the exhaustion, the heat, and a half decade of bad choices had finally gotten to her. She struggled to the stop just as the bus pulled up. When the driver opened the door, she felt the cool rush of air fall upon her, and in the wave of bliss that followed, she mechanically folded up the stroller as she stepped aboard.
The screaming passengers jarred her awake, and she looked down in horror to behold poor John, never the prettiest or brightest child, now horribly mangled in the nylon and aluminum tangle. How long had that strap around his neck cut the blood flow to his head? Would there be brain damage? Was he doomed to be even uglier and dumber?
Blame the brutal heat of the summer of 1978 for the stroller labels.