By a leaping bonfire of the vanities, in a small bungalow overlooking the fiscal cliff, Kanye West and Kim Kardashian appear to have conceived a child.

Kanye announced it at a concert Sunday night, and when Kanye announces something at a concert, you know it is happening.

I would try to remonstrate with them. “Look,” I would say, “Kim, you realize that you cannot return babies after 85 days?” But whenever I think I have something sensible to say to Kanye West, I remember that he replaced his lower teeth with diamonds, and, on being asked why, responded, “I just thought that the diamonds were cooler.” He transcends ordinary logic.

On the bright side, now Kim Kardashian will get to experience what it is like to have a noisy person without useful skills who demands constant attention, even when you just want to go to sleep. (“HA!” America will say.)

I do have great hopes for the child. Perhaps he is the chosen one who will lead us out of the new age of sequestration into the land of milk, honey, and sensible entitlement reform, clasping hands with Blue Ivy Carter and striding boldly over the landscape. Surely there can be no other explanation for how Twitter dropped our concerns about the Fiscal Cliff to fixate on this new hope.

Still, I can’t wait for a few years down the line when this child tries to rebel. If the kid really wants to make trouble, he will be polite and self-effacing, with a large collection of Taylor Swift albums.

“I DIDN’T RAISE YOU LIKE THIS,” Kim will shout, as he surreptitiously helps an old lady cross a street. “I DIDN’T RAISE YOU FROM A BABY SO YOU COULD SIT HERE QUIETLY, NOT DRAWING ATTENTION TO YOURSELF!”

The teen will nod politely and wait for her to calm down. “Are you finished?” he will ask. “I didn’t want to interrupt. Perhaps, though, you could keep your voice down? I think we are bothering people. And I need to get back to my useful and gainful employment at the George W. Bush Library. You know, he cared a great deal — about all people.”

“I’M GOING TO CALL YOUR FATHER,” Kim will bellow.

Late at night, Kim and Kanye will pace back and forth in their home, which I am assuming is a giant hall full of mirrors, full-length portraits of themselves in gold and ermine, and the occasional TV camera (just for variety). “Where did we go wrong?” they will ask. “We tried our best, and look at him.”

But somehow I suspect this will not be the case. Attention is potent and addictive, as drugs go. And “Kimye’s Baby” has a dozen Twitter parody accounts.

The child doesn’t stand a chance.

On the whole, it’s a fitting end to 2012. We know the Mayans weren’t right, but this is the next best thing.