A Rant – Little Kids

This weekend was the nicest New York City has experienced in a while.  Clear skies and above 80’s forced everyone out to enjoy the weather.  If you were a hermit, you deserve to be shot, because you missed skin on skin on skin on skin. Booties out, boobies out, tan on, drink on.  Everywhere was paradise–up until the very moment little kids came out to fk sh*t up.

Little kids are pieces of sh*t.  Literally. They sh*t everywhere. Puke everywhere. Fart. Yell for mommy. Drool. Cry. And bitch about evvvveeerrryyything. I can’t imagine being responsible for one of those runts. I honestly would rather just give them to white walkers.

I understand that you plopped that little boy or girl out of your womb. Your brain is actively telling you, “Don’t murder this child”, “You love this sh*thead so much, “Isn’t he cute?”. When any rational person would think, “This kid better pay for my retirement”, or “I can’t wait to get this fker out of my house”.  Here’s a little timeline for you want-to-be parents. You shoot out the baby, if you’re in America, you have to pay the bill, take the shithead home. Feed him, wipe his ass, and wake up every 3 hours in the night. Then they learn to walk and speak, where it takes them only a few months to realize you’re their little bitch. They will say no and fk your life up for no reason. When they’re old enough to be pawned off to a preschool you get daily reports of tantrums and suspensions. At this point any sane person should be done with that cutesy warm feeling from seeing said ugly retarded baby smile.  Everything you do becomes hollow and meaningless because you’re too busy anticipating the next thing your kid is ready to ruin.


Move them into elementary school and you’ll deal with toys and pokemon– all the horseshit a kid wants because Tommy’s parents bought it for him. So you go to Toys R Us to buy that shitty little plastic toy made in a shitty Chinese factory by a shitty Chinese kid (who you would gladly trade for because of his guaranteed positive ROI). After an hour in the store, aisle after aisle, you can’t find the red dinosaur your boy is spitting blood over. “But you got the blue dinosaur? I wanted the red!” Fk. Get ready for your ungrateful little fk to yell and moan like he’s getting waterboarded. You start to wish he was. Deal with this for a few years until it consumes your last remaining bit of youth. If you thought you’d turn into the cool dad at the barbeque sipping bud lights like those equally sh*tty commercials, you’re in for a sad surprise. Every sip of the beer you consume now is to drown the deep self hatred you have for keeping that pestilent fetus past the legal term for abortion.

Move onto middle/high school where hormones make them uncontrollable dickheads who think every pimple is the end of the world. At this point you realize what you’re going to get out of your kid. You might be lucky and have a star athlete or genius who could potentially pay for your Florida retirement plans, but chances are you have a dead horse. If you find a zumiez receipt in your house, I pray for you. If you find a condoms everywhere, it looks like you’re in for double trouble. It’s not too late to jump off that bridge you’ve been eyeing.  College isn’t cheap–and the first thing you should keep repeating is “No you’re not getting a degree in English.”

Just make sure this doesn’t happen to you. http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Daniel_Petric

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