If I knew you were coming I'd have baked a (placenta) cake

Okay, I’m on board with the romantic notion that childbirth can be a beautiful expression of love—or, at least, a beautiful expression of I-don’t-think-I-can-get-pregnant-because-I’m-on-my-period passion at its very best.

In my more gentle moments, I’ll even acknowledge that babies aren’t wholly repugnant. The constant geyser of shit is no great treat, really, and the incessant wailing in the middle of the night is at best selfish and at worst pretty fucking annoying—but at least infants aren’t old enough yet to demolish the family car or dip into your stash of Captain Morgan. We call this a silver lining, folks.

I can almost understand why people would celebrate the birth with cigars and such. If friends and family are expected to coo and gush over even the ugliest of babies (and there are plenty out there), the parents pretty much owe the cooers and gushers a smoke break to recover. At least this affords the opportunity to vent, “Jesus, that kid looks like it came from a blender,” or, "I can't believe the baby already has his Mom's fat ass," without hurting anyone’s feelings.

What seems to me to be a bit of overkill, though—and I’m guessing I’m not alone in this sentiment—is getting all whoot-whoot excited about the afterbirth.

You’ve got the baby. You’ve got the torn-up, stretched-out vagina. You can cut way back on your milk budget. You have a convenient excuse to avoid future sex. Congratulations. You’ve done well. So why hold on to the leftovers?

It would seem that placentas have moved out of the delivery room and into the mainstream. How could we not all be excited?

Stressing about fine lines and pores on your face? Get a placenta facial. Battling split ends? Pick up a bottle of placenta conditioner. Need something to fill that span of bare wall over the mantelpiece? How about hanging a limited edition placenta print?

Or, if you’re struggling to come up with a quick, no-fuss weekday meal, why not dig into the treasure trove of placenta recipes on the Web?

You need not look far to learn how to whip up everything from a hearty placenta stew to a spicy placenta sausage-garlic-and-fennel pizza. I’m a pepperoni man myself. Call me closed-minded, but I’ll go on record as saying that anyone who brings placenta-anything as an appetizer to my parties won’t be asked back. My apologies in advance.

My favorite new entry in the placenta market, though, is the latest in “sustainable toy designs”—the Placenta Teddy Bear. Designer Alex Green—who I’m guessing is pretty creepy—cut a human placenta in half, cured it with sea salt, treated it with an emulsifying blend of tannin and egg yolk, and then stitched it around some stuffing. Voila! The most disgusting gift you could ever give!

To the end of my days, I will never think of "sex toys" the same way again. A shame, really.