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subscribeI hate when children act all growed up, part II
posted: 02.13.10 at 12:00 AM
filed under: personal
This is part two of my rant about the deplorable behavior of disease-carrying proto-humans, which you might refer to as “children.” Click here to read part one.
Immediately after finishing work, I hurry to the local grocery store. It is important that I finish my shopping trip as quickly as possible. I have a small window of time to purchase a few items and return home, as parking spots in my neighborhood are very difficult to find after about 6 p.m.
As a man, I am completely inept in the art of grocery shopping. Instead of coordinating large shopping trips, I buy individual items as needed, making several trips to the store each week.
My shopping list is quite short and comprised primarily of liquids which are a staple of my kitchen: white wine for boqueen, beer for my alcohol fix and Coca-Cola for my caffeine fix. I also need portabella mushrooms, corn syrup and Brillo pads.
Unfortunately, my plans for a quick shopping trip are foiled by approximately 863 other individuals that decided to shop for groceries tonight. This comes as no surprise, as the store has been inexplicably packed with customers since the dawn of time.
I struggle to navigate through the aisles, wedging myself between scores of obese people and shopping carts. Finding six items quickly becomes a grand expedition that consumes half an hour of my time.
With my items finally in hand, I proceed to a checkout line that stretches as far as the eye can see. I check my watch in frustration, envisioning all of the parking spots on my block disappearing.
After a protracted wait, I finally near the checkout counter. Ages have passed since I first entered the store. My arms have grown weary from carrying the case of beer, and the mushrooms have already grown mold. One customer separates me from the rubber conveyor belt where I can finally unload my groceries: a bulbous woman with a shopping cart stuffed full of groceries and her plump, young son in tow.
The woman is purchasing approximately 600 items, while I only have six items. My transaction will take less than a minute, yet she never considers the possibility of letting me go first. I am stuck waiting for her.
As the woman places her items onto the belt, I glare at her in contempt. It is clear that she prefers to purchase in bulk. Her cart contains about 30 packages of tortillas, six packages of hot dogs, four pounds of lunch meat and three family-size packages of Hot Pockets.
I glance at her son, who was his finger planted firmly in his nostril. His obesity is shocking in light of the fact that his mother is clearly concerned with the dietary needs of her child.
The cashier finishes ringing up the groceries and announces a total that rivals the gross domestic product of a small South American country. The woman retrieves a Link card – Illinois’ version of food stamps – from the pocket of her ill-fitting sweat pants.
The introduction of the Link card complicates the entire transaction. The woman repeatedly attempts to swipe her card in the reader. She is unsuccessful each time, presumably due to the thick layer of sticky Faygo residue and Doritos cheese dust that encrusts the plastic card.
After the cashier manually types in the card number, the woman must provide her PIN number. Memorizing, retaining and recalling a four-digit sequence of numbers is inherently complex, so it takes several tries before the woman is successful.
Meanwhile, her son is transfixed on the bright, colorful selection of candy. He mulls the virtues of the nougat content of a Snickers bar against the crispiness of the Kit Kat’s cookie center. These are the existential struggles which define the human experience, separating us from the animals.
I am overcome with delight as the cashier hands the woman a receipt that is approximately one kilometer in length. After a lengthy delay, it is finally my turn. The shopping trip that seemed to last for an eternity is finally drawing to a close.
My joy is abruptly interrupted by the fat young lad as he slams a jumbo-sized candy bar onto the counter. It a concoction unlike anything I have ever seen, consisting of layers of chocolate, peanuts, nougat, peanut butter, jelly, pretzels, nacho cheese, bacon, butter, beef jerky and pure cane sugar. I believe the candy bar is called “Nestlé Coronary.”
The cashier strains her arm as she drags the mammoth candy bar across the barcode scanner. It costs more than one dollar, since this is not a regular candy bar, but a jumbo-sized-designed-specifically-for-loathsome-fat-fucks-and-precisely-why-the-terrorists-hate-us version of a candy bar.
The stout young mammal shoves his swollen hand into the pocket of his sweatpants to retrieve a form of legal tender. He pulls out a nickel and hands it to the cashier.
“Five,” he counts proudly, as I realize that the little bastard intends to pay for the candy bar with pocket change.
This process continues ceaselessly. Each time, the boy rescues a single coin from the sweaty trenches of his pocket and announces the total amount that he has paid.
“Fifty-five.”
I check the time and realize that I will be unable to find a parking spot within two blocks of my apartment.
“Sixty.”
I begin to daydream.
“Sixty-five.”
I envision myself summoning all of my strength to kick the boy as far as possible.
“Sixty-six.”
While the child is not aerodynamic, he is shaped much like a football.
“Sixty-seven.”
If I successfully kicked the boy through a narrow window pane, would that count as a field goal?
“Sixty-eight.”
I snap out of my daydream, realizing that the boy is paying with pennies.
“Here, take the goddamned candy bar,” I shout as I throw two bills onto the counter. “It’s on me. Now get the fuck out of my way!”
The young whale is unfazed by my outburst. To the contrary, he is delighted that I expedited the purchasing process and finally united him with his coveted candy bar.
His mother, on the other hand, is outraged. She begins shouting at me, her voice strained and her arms waving. Fortunately, she does not speak English, so I pretend that she is commending me for my behavior and declaring me a great American.
I fail to understand why the boy’s mother did not intervene first. The boy is far too young to work and, if he were, his physical condition renders him unfit for engaging in any activity resembling “labor.” The change in his pocket was likely earned in the form of his allowance.
His mother could have easily purchased the candy bar, and then deducted the value of the bar from his next allowance check. This is a great way to teach children about credit.
Or, she could have paid for the candy and let him reimburse her for the full value at a later point in time, such as when they were in the car, at home, or any other place that was not in my way. Perhaps she could charge the boy a small percentage of interest for the loan. This is another great way to teach children about credit.
Instead, she permitted her son the cheap thrill of pretending to be an adult. By paying for the candy himself and interacting with grown-ups, the boy experienced a primitive sense of euphoria that was only matched by the delight of shoving the jumbo candy bar into his fat mouth. This is a great way to teach children about wasting the time of far more important individuals, such as myself.
As I walk back to my car, it is far too late to find a decent parking spot in the neighborhood. In fact, the sun is starting to rise and I have a five o’clock shadow.
I decide to walk back into the grocery store. I need to shave, and I am out of razors.
::
America faces a grave crisis. Every day, millions of children mimic the behavior of adults in an effort to stroke their tiny, underdeveloped egos. Parents often act as enablers, encouraging their children to engage in this sick delusion.
The consequences of these deranged fantasies are alarming. These children often interfere with the daily lives of important adults, such as me. The time lost by waiting for children to act out their foolish fantasies could be dedicated to far more important causes, such as eliminating global hunger, saving the whales or cooking bacon.
I find children’s obsession with adult behavior completely bewildering. Children do not appreciate the sheer awesomeness of their lives. Children have absolutely no responsibility to themselves or society as a whole. If I were a child, I would spend my day playing Sega Genesis and watching episodes of He-Man and the Masters of the Universe on LaserDisc. To me, this would be a utopian lifestyle.
Children fail to recognize that being an adult absolutely fucking sucks. Wearing makeup or paying for their own purchases may bolster a child’s sense of self-importance, but it conveniently glosses over the mundane trapping of the adult experience.
Adults have to wake up early in the morning, go to work and perform tasks at the behest of a superior. We have to pay an endless number of bills, including car insurance, car payments, electric, gas, water, phone and any criminal fines levied by the court. We have to worry about getting too fat, getting too drunk and getting our girlfriends pregnant. We have to contend with irrational bosses, coworkers, commuters and parole officers. Most importantly, we must suppress our primal urges to karate kick children when they get in our way.
The next time I see a child pretending to be an adult, I will be certain to remind the kid that being an adult is not nearly as enjoyable as it may seem. Then, I will demand that the child engage in more realistic “grown-up” games, such as “Waiting in line at the DMV,” “Negotiating a divorce settlement” or “Pleading ‘no contest’ to all charges.”
The snot-nosed critter will thank me for making him realizing how great it is to be a kid.
one response to 'I hate when children act all growed up, part II'
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I don’t use the word hate often…..but I HATE fucking kids. Especially the kind that have been let loose in public. Did these parents forget how much of a pain in the ass it was to wait on some brat to finish something before you can proceed? I can’t stand the whining and crying either. I kicked my own 2 year old nephew out on the streets with his mother for being a fucking asshole. I would have been that guy on the news that shakes the kid to death. Great post man.
Guilmar
03.15.10 01:54 AM