Dear ages -9 months and up,
I’ll start with the unborn: Get your life-leeching, meiosis-and-mitosis manufactured collection of cells out of my woman! How is harboring a lima-bean-sized humanoid that slowly swells to roughly 10 lbs and 3 oz something to celebrate? That, my friends, is a wildly out-of-control infection that needs to be dealt with. I mean, how do we convince ourselves that it is a good idea to aid and abet in the creation of and care for what amounts to be a 9-month-long parasite? Don’t get me wrong, I think that calling it the Miracle of Birth is accurate…insofar as the miracle is that the thing makes it to birth at all. But, lo, most of ’em do.
Now for the infants out there: Your allure is lost on me. Your penchant for drooling till your pudgy chin glistens like a malformed Twilight Vampire is disgusting. Your head is too large; what on earth are you thinking about? Your favored mode of transportation can only be accurately described as a waddle-crawl–the most ridiculous sequence of motions and movements imaginable to get you from point A to B. It isn’t practical, so I don’t appreciate it. Furthermore, your lip-and-gum combo habitually gets to second-base in public. It’s kinky, I’ll give you that. But, it’s also your mom, so… And, lastly: No, I will not refer to you as he or she until I can no longer get away with it.
Ah, and we’re on to young children: The way you lie about climbing that million-foot tree makes me distrust you. You are bold, annoying things. Oh, the dog just sniffed my wee-wee? What an observant little bugger you are! What’s my name? Reese. What’s the color of the sky? Blue. Which way is the ceiling? Up. Reese blue up. That is not funny, unfunny even, unless you’re talking to the Balkan Powder Keg circa 1914 or Justin Bieber circa now; otherwise, I am not humored. Lastly, your dad’s muscles are not bigger than mine. He is fat, old, and out of shape. I could beat the both of you up.
Lastly, for tweens and teens: Your delusions of grandeur infuriate me. I don’t care how many times you squeak uncouth phrases to your elders while playing Call of Duty online, a prepubescent pitched voice cannot be intimidating; it is nothing less than scientific law. And the angst? I simply cannot take it seriously. Get back to me when your frontal lobe gets in. As wrong as it may be, in the same way that I am taken aback when an unattractive person has the confidence of an attractive person–there are beautiful people who are entitled to that swagger for heaven’s sake, please give it back–I abhor an up-and-coming youth whose britches are unabashedly big; stop overcompensating for your age by trying to belittle people bigger than you, both intellectually and otherwise. Oh, and if only you knew how disgusting Megan Fox thinks it is that you think of her that way…
What do children and lightning have in common? Just make sure you wear your rubber and don’t worry about it.