Things You Shouldn’t Do While Covered in Baby Oil
Being covered in baby oil turns an ordinary adult into a human eel with a LinkedIn account.
Almost nothing you normally do stays legal, safe, or socially survivable once you’ve gone full glazed doughnut.
The honest answer is short: do less, touch nothing, apologize early.
The longer answer involves your couch, a condom that didn’t make it, a sun that wants you dead, and a doorknob that has personally decided you are not getting through that door tonight.
Touching other people
A handshake becomes a magic trick where your hand and the other person’s faith in you both vanish at once.
Your grandmother did not sign a waiver for this hug.
High-fives now produce a wet slap that everyone hears and absolutely no one will acknowledge.
You are, technically, still a person.
Functionally, you are a freshly buttered banister with strong opinions and somewhere to be.
The dog will not come when called, because the dog has watched you slick yourself like a competitive ham and the dog wants no part of whatever comes next.
Whatever the internet told you to do with it
Somewhere online, a confident idiot recommended baby oil as personal lubricant.
That person is not a doctor.
That person is a public health event with a username and a ring light.
Baby oil dissolves latex condoms faster than one petty group chat dissolves a decade of friendship.
It also flatly refuses to rinse off with water, so it moves into your good sheets and starts quietly receiving its own mail there under a fake name.
Then comes a yeast infection nobody ordered.
The human rotisserie special
Generations of people slathered on baby oil and stretched out in the sun like a chicken thigh with dreams and a deadline.
Baby oil actively pulls in UV rays while offering you precisely zero sun protection.
So you are not tanning.
You are slow-roasting yourself, basted and seasoned, for compliments that are never coming.
One in five Americans develops skin cancer by age 70, and lying out marinated in mineral oil is doing that number absolutely no favors whatsoever.
Nearly a quarter of people still swear a “base tan” prevents sunburn, which is the skincare equivalent of fighting a grease fire with a bucket of grease.
Around 9,500 people a day get a skin cancer diagnosis in this country.
Retire the human-kebab routine before lunch.
Showing up anywhere with a dress code
Walk into a job interview gleaming and your firm handshake becomes a war crime.
At a wedding, you will catch the bouquet, the garter, and a permanent restraining order from the photographer.
Funerals are worse, because there is genuinely no graceful way to slide into a pew.
Anything tailored is now a sponge that fits.
A suit will drink you in, weep a little, and quietly resign from your closet by Tuesday morning.
Furniture you would like to keep
Baby oil will polish leather beautifully, right before it ruins that leather completely and forever.
This is, coincidentally, the exact same way it is currently treating your weekend.
Lower yourself onto the nice couch and it absorbs you like a sponge absorbs poor decisions.
Your white linen armchair is now an abstract painting called “Regret, With Moisturizer.”
Restaurants are out too, since every booth you grace will need to be professionally degreased like the back of a fryer.
Doorknobs, jars, and other sworn enemies
It is mostly mineral oil, a refined crude product, so congratulations: you are now a small, scented oil spill with a pulse and a Netflix queue.
Nothing in your home consents to being held anymore.
- Doorknobs spin uselessly in your fist like they’ve blocked your number.
- Your phone attempts a swan dive roughly every eight seconds.
- Jar lids are now a personal nemesis with a detailed tragic backstory.
- Stairs have become an extreme sport whose grand prize is a concussion and a story you will not tell honestly.
Pouring a glass of water turns into a hostage negotiation that you, the slippery one, are guaranteed to lose.
And forget parallel parking, mostly because you can no longer hold the wheel, the gearstick, or your last shred of composure.
The one baby you cannot hold
The bottle has the word “baby” printed right there on the front.
A baby is the one thing on earth you cannot hold while wearing it.
A greased infant is no longer a child.
It is a fumble actively scouting for a highlight reel.
Outrunning your own decisions
Recent news cycles taught the entire planet that “industrial quantities of baby oil” is a phrase fully capable of ending an empire.
So if the evening turns, here’s your reward.
You cannot be tackled, cuffed, or fingerprinted, which feels gloriously invincible for about four seconds.
Then reality strolls in.
You also cannot drive, sign a confession, or grip the wheel of the getaway car you optimistically rented under your own name.
You are too slippery to catch and far too slippery to flee, which has to be the single most flawless and useless superpower ever handed to a grown adult.
Reach for dish soap instead, the specific kind that brags about being tough on grease, because it was engineered for exactly this betrayal.
Scrub like it owes you money.
Then sit on a towel, in the dark, and slowly retrace the chain of choices that delivered you, glistening, to this moment.
The baby oil goes back in the cabinet, right next to every other thing that felt like pure genius at 2 a.m.
