I hate when children act all growed up, part I

I hate children.

I like to consider myself an equal-opportunity child hater.  I hate white children, black children, light children and fat children.  I hate Mexican children, Aztecan children, Asian children and Haitian children.  I hate infants, toddlers, adolescents and those who are pubescent.

Children have an adverse effect on my quality of life.  These proto-humans are ill-equipped to make a positive contribution to society, on account of their squeaky voices and stumpy limbs. 

I make an exception for my nieces and nephew.  Lil bokeen and his siblings are model citizens, the Future of America.  However, their peers are worthless, whiny shitbags that need to die immediately. 

To me, children are utterly repulsive creatures when they are engaging in their normal, daily activities, such as watching Spongebob Squarepants or arranging an illicit sexual rendezvous with an adult using the Interwebs.  When children attempt to engage in adult activities, they become reprehensible little characters worthy of the CIA’s most harsh torture tactics.

::

Last week, boqueen and I went out to dinner with my dad (herein referred to as “old bokeen.”)  Since old bokeen lives in western Illinois – a place surrounded by corn fields and cow feces and virtually devoid of dining options – our only choices were Hardee’s and Applebee’s.

We chose Applebee’s, a casual dining establishment that would be indistinguishable from Chili’s, Bennigan’s and Ruby Tueday, were it not for the neon red apple on their signage.

old bokeen ordered a dish served over Hispanic rice. boqueen had a faux-Italian meal that involved noodles.  I had something with tortillas.  It was a glorious meal. 

As I noshed on the fajita-like slop that had been served to me, I glanced across the table and noticed our fellow diners.  The table was occupied by a middle-aged man and his two female children.  I cannot be sure about the age of the girls without cutting them open and counting the rings, though I would estimate that the older broad was 11, while the younger sister was eight.

The 11-year-old girl sat directly across from me, smacking her lips while she gnawed on her steak with her mouth agape. 

Normally, witnessing a preteen eat with their mouth open is not a noteworthy experience.  However, this little broad was decked out in full slut garb.  Her eyelids were adorned with heaps of dark purple makeup and black eyeliner in a manner that would be offensive to Lady Gaga.   A tank top tightly clutched her petite breasts, the neckline descending to reveal the ribs that lined her scrawny chest.

Essentially, the broad looked like a tiny, malnourished hooker.

I was perplexed by the young tramp, for her appearance sent mixed messages.  While her makeup said “Feed me a penis immediately,” her youthful, open-mouthed eating habits said, “Can I watch Hannah Montana if I finish all of my vegetables?” 

I redirected my scorn from the cast iron skillet that had been placed before me to the small family.

Surely the father was troubled by his young daughter’s appearance, I reasoned.  The girl lacked any semblance of discretion or subtlety in crafting her image.  By applying several kilograms of makeup and revealing a large swath of her scrawny chest, she was not merely attempting to improve her appearance.  Instead, it was a pathetic and futile effort to be sexy. 

I imagined the father arguing with his daughter after she painted her face on a Friday night, ready to hit the town with her friends.  He objects to the girl’s appearance, ultimately relenting in frustration.  As she leaves the house, he envisions a terrifying future where he spots his daughter’s pin tits in a Girls Gone Wild video.  Unfortunately, it is far more likely that she will be found on the roadside half naked, clutching her Underoos as a van speeds away in a video on BangBus.com. 

I have little sympathy for the father who, in seven short years, will inadvertently catch a glimpse of his daughter’s downstairs mix-up while trolling for smut on the Interwebs.  He is enabling his daughter to realize her true destiny as a filthy whore and double-penetration enthusiast.   

“Parenting rule,” I announced as I turned to boqueen, who I will eventually bestow with the honor of gestating my seed. “No makeup until you are old enough to chew with your mouth closed.” 

I later revised the conditions of the rule.  Our daughter will not be allowed to wear makeup until she learns to chew with her mouth closed and she sprouts breasts of a B-cup size or larger.  This is a safeguard in the event our child develops proper eating habits at an early age.  After all, we intend on spawning little prodigies.

Furthermore, the purpose of makeup is to make women sexier.  I will explain to our daughter that any attempts to boost one’s sexiness without B-cup breasts are unwise, because women with tiny tits cannot be sexy.

::

Children relish the opportunity to behave like adults.  They love to fantasize that they are fully-grown, contributing members of society.  This delusion helps them escape from the harsh reality of being undersized, germ-ridden creatures that offer absolutely no value to the world that they live in. 

Many of these childlike hallucinations are merely irritating.  In the case of the aforementioned preteen hussy, she became the focus of my disdain during dinner, but her whore-like ways have no bearing on my life.

However, there are other times when children emulate adults in public, causing me to waste my time as I wait for the little fucks to finish indulging their fantasy. 

I have encountered the following scenarios dozens, if not thousands of times.  Each time, I carefully retrain myself from grabbing the offending young mammal’s parent by the neck and squeezing until their face turns a delightful shade of purple.

::

At the stroke of noon, I dash out the door for lunch.  I have an insatiable craving for fatty and salty fast food. 

I have a conference call scheduled for one o’clock, so I am on a tight timeline.  I briefly consider bringing a moist bag full of fried food back to my apartment, but I decide to eat at the restaurant instead.  Since I spend most of my workweek sitting at my kitchen table, the shiny, plastic booths of a fast food establishment seem like a nice change of pace.

After gobbling down a cheap, oily mass of food-like matter, I guiltily reflect upon the rampant gluttony that makes America great.  I glance at my watch and realize that I have ten minutes to get home and allow my bowels settle before my conference call begins.

I discard the oily paper remains of my meal and decide to refill my drink.  As I head towards the fountain beverages, a young critter intersects my path.

The child is about nine years old, as evidenced by the crusty remains of mucus surrounding her nostrils.  She does not walk across the tile floor.  Instead, she skips like a mentally retarded kangaroo with a broken leg.  Her rubber sandals smack against her grubby feet, creating a rapid and erratic percussive sound. 

I begrudgingly suppress my natural inclination to grasp the young child’s head and throw her to the floor as she clomps to the beverage dispenser.  Impatiently, I look at my watch again.

“Great.  Now I have to wait for this little bitch,” I mutter under my breath.  “I am operating on her time.”

The blonde little critter is barely tall enough to reach the fountain.  She stands on the tips of her toes, struggling to reach the ice dispenser.  After much stretching and grunting, her cup finally reaches the metal lever and ice begins pouring into the cup.

The underdeveloped two-legged creature holds the cup in place for about 30 seconds, until ice is overflowing onto the floor.  She brings the cup down to waist level and briefly stares into in.  Realizing that she had dispensed too much ice, she dumps out the entire fucking contents of the cup and starts over.

Eons later, she is satisfied with the amount of ice in her cup and begins to dispense her beverage of choice.  Usually, she will select an age-appropriate beverage, such as orange soda, Hi-C fruit punch or Similac. 

Perched upon her unkempt toes, the young Caucasoid pours the beverage in very short bursts, careful not to overfill the cup.  Once the cup is about half full, she returns the cup to waist level to check its contents.  Unsatisfied with the volume of liquid, she stretches to return the cup to the dispenser, pouring the beverage a short burst of approximately 1.21 seconds.  Again, she moves the cup back down to waist level to check the beverage level.  This process repeats until the cup is nearly full.

Once the cup is near its capacity, the child becomes far more careful.  Children are not satisfied with paper cups that are 90 percent full; it is absolutely imperative that the cup is 99.925 percent full.

The sandaled primate continues to fill her cup in short bursts, until the colorful Kool-Aid spills over the edge of the cup onto her stumpy forearms.  The loss of 9 mL of liquid clearly troubles the girl, as she continues to pour until the cup is brimming with liquid.  Finally, she places the cup onto the counter and begins an epic quest for the appropriate sized plastic lid. 

The search for the lid lasts is excruciatingly long, as she repeatedly attempts to fit her cup with covers that are either obscenely large or far too small.

After eventually finding the proper lid, the girl jams a straw into the overfilled beverage, causing several ounces of liquid to pour onto the floor.  She is clearly unsatisfied with her efforts and considers refilling the cup to its capacity.  Before she removes the lid from the cup, I swing my hips to knock her aside, for it is my turn.

By now, my ice has melted.  Within the course of 11 seconds, I refill my cup with ice and Dr. Pepper, replace the lid and straw and walk towards the door.

Before I exit the restaurant, I gaze back at the child in contempt.  Her parents are gleefully congratulating her for filling her own cup, as if she had cured cancer or travelled back in time to kill Hitler and prevent the Holocaust. 

As I walk back to my car, I check by BlackBerry for emails.  I discover that I missed the conference call.  In fact, an email from my boss reveals that I have been fired for missing several important meetings.

I decide to walk back into the fast food restaurant.  I am hungry again, and they are now serving breakfast. 

Click here for part II.

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