Sims vs. Sims

I’m so over Josephine. Everyone else is busy fawning over her, but I’m fed up with it. Come on, people – spare the sap . . . I think it’s high time I get some more attention around here.

Here are a couple obvious reasons why I'm more deserving:

1) I’m much smarter and wittier than Josephine.
2) I’m way more articulate; for crying out loud, she can’t even talk -- she only grunts and moans, so that’s a pretty low bar to beat.
3) I’m arguably better looking. And besides, if it weren’t for me, she’d be at least 50% less cute. Where do you think she got all those attractive features and adorable mannerisms anyway? They didn’t magically appear one day out of nowhere; it's no coincidence that I’m pretty lovable and adorable myself.
4) I’m more agile, and I could definitely beat her in a foot race. Meanwhile, everyone gets ecstatic when she sits up or rolls over, a trick most dogs would’ve easily mastered by this age too. It was only a few months ago that everyone was getting so worked up when she lifted her hand up to her mouth, and . . . [suspense building] . . . accidentally latched onto her fist to pacify herself. If you ask me, that's not a very impressive feat for the same species that has harnessed electricity, designed supersonic aircraft, penned epic novels, etc. If you're going to offer praise for the basest demonstrations of manual dexterity, that's fine -- I just suggest you reserve that sort of acclaim for lesser primates.

If the disparity stopped at praise for her trivial achievements, I could maybe overlook it, but I'm most disgruntled by the attention she gets despite some clearly despicable iniquities. Since when do we embrace (much less encourage!) people who sleep away most of their day? And when she’s not sleeping, she’s usually either gorging her gluttonous addictions or bawling her eyes out -- neither of which seem very healthy either. Do you really expect to convince me that someone who only eats, sleeps, and cries is “soooo precious”? That sounds more like an archetypical case of manic depression; I frankly believe she belongs in a psych ward, in a room with padded walls. (Come to think of it, no wonder they make bumpers for the interior perimeter of a crib).

The last place Josephine needs to be is in the doting gaze and embrace of some obsessed family member who is merely enabling her mental illness, reinforcing her bad habits and her other severe shortcomings. Someone – someone! – needs to hold her to higher standards. I look forward to the day when somebody finally takes advantage of all this face time we get with her and sternly exhorts, “Josephine, Welcome to the Human Race, now pull yourself together.”