Precious Gifts from God
After what can only be described as a harrowing week (long, stressful, depressing) it was a relief to leave work at 5:30 today. Most of the train ride was fine, but somewhere around 36th street, someone’s hideous spawn boarded the train.
Look. Children are wonderful. God, they are just so freaking amazing and adorable. We should all just fall to our knees and thank Christ in heaven for the sweet joy of being in proximity of them. I should be so lucky to breed with a male of my species one day to produce a miraculous little jewel of my own.
But can we admit that maybe, perhaps, and oh-so-possibly there might be some pure-bred little shits out there? Can we? Okay, good.
The oldest one was somewhere in the 10-11 range, quite the little chunk. The little one (mini-chunk) was probably 8. They were unaccompanied, of course, and by their beastly behavior it was pretty clear that they’d most likely been unattended their whole lives. They shrieked, cavorted, held the doors open, flung themselves against them, and tried prying the doors open while the train was trucking along at full speed.
I realize I am not the most patient person when it comes to kids, but perhaps the objections of my fellow passengers will give me some legitimacy here. Several different people told them to “Stop that” and “Cut that out” and “Let go of the doors” and “Whachoo wanna die, brat?” but each protestation was only met by the flat, lizard eyes of an already ruined kid. At one point, the older one even seemed to challenge an adult twice his size (“Can I help you?” he says.) which just about floored me.
It makes one wonder what blank, slack-faced mother type awaits them at home…or doesn’t, who knows? I could only imagine the first of many times the cops come to visit, her greasy tears, listless sniveling, practiced and blandly pleading to go easy on her, she’s just a single mom, raising them herself, please don’t take away her “boys.” I’m projecting, of course, and overflowing with coarse cruelty and a complete lack of sympathy. I would ask, though, that after acknowledging the hardships of life, might we also take some responsibility?
Git off my lawn you damn kids! I’ve become Old Man Poopface, I guess. But of course I tried—I DID—to understand their evil little minds. I recalled all the stories the ex told me of his misspent youth—and while I have vast reservations about him in all the ways that count (to me, at least), I can say that underneath it all he is capable of great kindness, thoughtfulness, and love. So, perhaps the boogers will grow up to be flawed but generally redeemable men. Can’t say. In the meantime, I cling to my cloudy memories of yore, when I, too, was a loud-mouthed, hyperactive, supersensitive, screechy preteen. It was a miracle I got out of it alive.
Which of course led me here, eventually, because I used to have the second verse down like a clown, Charlie Brown. By the way, has Will Smith aged at ALL?
Look. Children are wonderful. God, they are just so freaking amazing and adorable. We should all just fall to our knees and thank Christ in heaven for the sweet joy of being in proximity of them. I should be so lucky to breed with a male of my species one day to produce a miraculous little jewel of my own.
But can we admit that maybe, perhaps, and oh-so-possibly there might be some pure-bred little shits out there? Can we? Okay, good.
The oldest one was somewhere in the 10-11 range, quite the little chunk. The little one (mini-chunk) was probably 8. They were unaccompanied, of course, and by their beastly behavior it was pretty clear that they’d most likely been unattended their whole lives. They shrieked, cavorted, held the doors open, flung themselves against them, and tried prying the doors open while the train was trucking along at full speed.
I realize I am not the most patient person when it comes to kids, but perhaps the objections of my fellow passengers will give me some legitimacy here. Several different people told them to “Stop that” and “Cut that out” and “Let go of the doors” and “Whachoo wanna die, brat?” but each protestation was only met by the flat, lizard eyes of an already ruined kid. At one point, the older one even seemed to challenge an adult twice his size (“Can I help you?” he says.) which just about floored me.
It makes one wonder what blank, slack-faced mother type awaits them at home…or doesn’t, who knows? I could only imagine the first of many times the cops come to visit, her greasy tears, listless sniveling, practiced and blandly pleading to go easy on her, she’s just a single mom, raising them herself, please don’t take away her “boys.” I’m projecting, of course, and overflowing with coarse cruelty and a complete lack of sympathy. I would ask, though, that after acknowledging the hardships of life, might we also take some responsibility?
Git off my lawn you damn kids! I’ve become Old Man Poopface, I guess. But of course I tried—I DID—to understand their evil little minds. I recalled all the stories the ex told me of his misspent youth—and while I have vast reservations about him in all the ways that count (to me, at least), I can say that underneath it all he is capable of great kindness, thoughtfulness, and love. So, perhaps the boogers will grow up to be flawed but generally redeemable men. Can’t say. In the meantime, I cling to my cloudy memories of yore, when I, too, was a loud-mouthed, hyperactive, supersensitive, screechy preteen. It was a miracle I got out of it alive.
Which of course led me here, eventually, because I used to have the second verse down like a clown, Charlie Brown. By the way, has Will Smith aged at ALL?
posted by Shiny at 8:20 PM
1 Comments:
as the bumper sticker on the car across the street says, "6 billion miracles are enough!"
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