You know that the local mill uses something called "Thermo-Mechanical Pulping" to turn wood into paper; maybe you could use the same concept to pulpify your baby Angels? Thankfully; you understand the English language, so you probably already have enough information to begin this lengthy and thorough processing. Thermal means heat, and mechanical means... whatever this shaky mom stick is, and pulping is what you hope to be left with! So you rig up a beautiful make-shift bunsen set-up with the rusty blow-torch underneath your cockroach filled beaker. You aren't sure how hot you want the water to run, so you keep the beaker suspended a good two feet above the torch on a brilliant system of bent wire hangers and duct tape. Who says you can't be both a scientific genius AND a rising star of the engineering world? Once you see the water start to percolate, and those little beauties squeal with the delight of scientific discovery, you start to agitate. And boy do you ever agitate! You ram that stink stick down into the wet sludge and pound that shit. Oh you're pounding that shit so hard, lost in the ecstasy of creation, you are oblivious to the moaning your mouth emits. Loud enough it be to arouse the worry of your mom; afraid you are having some kind of Pizza-pocket induced heart episode; she races down the stairs and bursts into your room.
It's at this point in the tale where I have to admit that even as your all-seeing, all-knowing narrator, navigating the infinite path-ways of this ever expanding universe; that the stone-faced, expressionless silence with which your mother met the strange scene before her left me with absolutely no idea what was going through her head. The awkward silence which permeated the rest of your long, sad relationship with your mother leaves you with even less of a clue as to what happened that fateful day in your dank dirty basement. Needless to say, you never fed the world vaginally infused roach pulp.