Mommy Needs a Kick in the Face!
I have this habit of ramming into the cleaning lady’s car in my driveway.
happened twice now and it will never happen again or I will become
another statistic of a normal suburban guy gone horribly wrong who
suddenly puts down the garden hose and eats the next-door neighbor’s
wife whole. Gulp! Goodbye broad. I’ve hit it twice!
I have been driving for over fifteen years and have had virtually no
scrapes ever. Yet, I did it again pretty much on the one-month eve of
the last ramming, and less than a week after the repairs were done on
poor Sascha’s Accord. What the fuck is wrong with me? Oh, and why does
she park in my blind spot knowing now that I never ever EVER have a car
parked behind me in my driveway and am used to just zooming on out
backwards with nary a care in the world? WHY? WHY, DAMMIT?
Deep breath. It’s not her fault. It’s my fault. It just fucking SUCKS.
I was at the collision place today making my appointment to have my
little orange/copper car serviced and I had to wait a while while the
gentleman [who resembled a mixture of Don Johnson and Don Johnson’s
mom] worked up the estimate for the repairs as well as the few cosmetic
dings I wanted to fix while the car was there. I waited while ESPN News
ran on the plasma screen across from me. Until the manager noticed a
little unattended boy wandering around the lobby. He gave the little
douche a remote control, turned a chair towards the screen and
proceeded to go through the channels on DirectTV for children to see
what the pot-bellied asshole wanted to watch while his mother got her
Lexus or Mercedes SUV prepped for service. She probably dinged it with
her golf cart on her way to the ladies luncheon at the clubhouse.
Every channel devoted to kids was met with this response:
Finally, the tail end of a Jo-Jo’s Circus
[which yes, I own the soundtrack to] episode came on and the manager
was satiated. He left the little snatchmuffin on the chair to enjoy
finer moments in clown claymation while I looked on in fear and horror.
It’s not that I needed to see the endless loop of the same five sports
highlights for the next twenty minutes and it’s not that I hate ol’
Jo-Jo as much as I do Barney or Calliou [is he a Cancer Kid? I never
know and I want to bash his head in so I hope he’s perfectly healthy so
it hurts more and I don’t have to feel sorry about it because if he’s
bald from Cancer it’s 45% harder to want to bash his fucking head in],
but there was one child in a place overrun with adults and I found it
intriguing to see this little distended fatbody getting run of the
place while I, a paying customer [$500 deductible, bitches!] was forced
to see the cycles of daytime children’s television.
didn’t know, daytime children’s television is almost as good as
watching bobcats and lynxes chewing your dead and dying relatives apart
in an acid rainstorm.
Then his mother came back into the building. AND SAW HER SON WATCHING THE UNWATCHABLE.
didn’t blow her lid, which was one of those short mushroom haircuts
women get when they don’t care about pleasing their husband sexually
ever again, but she did cause some steam to come up from around the
edges of her hideous rug.
The boy’s chair was turned around
while she went through her purse, leaving me and the rest of the
waiting horde to continue seeing what the latest and greatest on the
Sprout Network [or whatever bitch bastard channel it was] was. Then,
the lady started to talk to the receptionist about how different
television was in her day. She spoke of The Flintstones being to her what The Family Guy is to kids today and I started to claw my eyes out. She mentioned The Brady Bunch being a huge part of her life, and the conversation segued from there to The Jetsons, Happy Days, and sonofabitching Family Affair.
The one with curly-hair abortion Johnny Whitaker. I’d rather have
Barlow the vampire put me in his pants bag for eternity than have to
endure the sight of a young or old Johnny Whitaker.
sucks. I spent five minutes with her and I wanted her bones to liquify
and seep out through her urethra. And it’s not like I wanted the best
for her kid. Fuck her kid. He was crap too. If I was in charge of his
television viewing schedule I’d crank the calender back seven days and
show him the Ring video. Fuck him!
line is that overparenting is already way too prevalent, I don’t need
it skulking over to where I have to see it firsthand. What the hell
good is a child going to be if they can’t even experience the most
base, benign, and CUSTOM MADE FOR THEM entertainment that’s out there?
Is it going to force them to rebel and build the next Stileproject
style website or are they going to live the kind of sheltered life that
leads to a more thinly-minded societal structure than we already have?
It’s not like the kid was going to watch the Spice Network or whatever
the current softcore network is. it was fucking kid’s shows.
I have some relatives who don’t have cable television or a DVD player in their house for two reasons:
1. They hate life.
They don’t want their children to accidentally see I dunno, a pussy. Or
a guy get bisected in the groin with a hatchet… which I guess is the
Me, and I’m not the role model for all that is good in a human being I know, but I saw Phantasm when I was like 8 and loved it and never felt compelled to send my remote controlled balls on a killing spree. I also saw Watership Down and knew that violence was bad and that the Man is always going to give it to those less fortunate.
This woman and many like her, are creating the most pussified group of children the world has ever known.
Nick Nunziata’s daugther is going to be more equipped for the world and
a more reasonable human being because of, not in spite of her diet over
the years of Godzilla movies, Baby Einstein videos, Spider-Man flicks,
Disney flicks, educational programs, Classical Baby videos, and
whatever the hell else we allow her to watch on her road to becoming a
person with their own brain.