I was walking around in Target tonight, looking at toys and thinking about my Christmas list. And I realized something--you bastards need to quit breeding. My shopping list is getting out of control, and it increases in size every year.
Look, I understand--I like to fuck, too. But it's 2009, kids, and there's this thing called birth control. It's science, not witchcraft--there's no need to fear it. We're riding a sinking planet, so you don't need to worry about keeping the population going. Just accept the fact that our species has an expiration date, and save me a few bucks next Christmas, yeah?
I was talking to my sister, trying to figure out why the breeders get so out of hand with their reproduction, and she had a laundry list of reasons. Crap about love, about happiness, about fulfillment.
What I took out of it is that it's some sort of power trip. You have this little human being that you can kill in like a million ways. Hell, they're practically suicidal, anyways, you can take them out in a matter of minutes by just ignoring them.
So you want to feel like God. Fine, I get that. But why should it cost me? Birthdays, Christmas, your kids are costing me a fortune, and there's no need for this. Just do what I do when I want to feel powerful and in control--climb up into a tower with a high-powered rifle, and stare at people through the scope.
Yeah, I see you there, delivery guy, walking along with your box. I could take you out right now. What's that, lady in the blue dress? You have an important lunch date? I could make sure you never have another lunch ever again.
Rest your finger on the trigger, apply just a little pressure, it'd be so easy, they'd never know what hit 'em.
And the best part? When Christmas rolls around, nobody has to buy extra presents. There's no agonizing over what size the baby is this year, what toys it's allowed to play with.
You might not have picked up on this, but I know jack shit about infants. So when I go over to pick out an outfit, I have no idea about what size shirts they wear, what size pants they wear, or what the hell that weird pink hat-ribbon thing even is. Is it to squeeze the baby's head into the proper shape? Because they need that. Goofy-headed little bastards.
Or is it like some sort of decoration to pretty up an essentially ugly part of life? Like putting a crocheted cover on a roll of toilet tissue. But with more skin flakes. Fuckin' babies, man, seriously. So grody.
I'm about done with it, you hear me? I'm one step away from throwing in the towel and getting every one of your slobber-puppets the exact same thing: a one-size-fits-all burlap sack with a head-hole cut out, and a box of rat traps. If I'm feeling exceptionally gracious, I'll even throw in a length of rope to use as a belt if the burlap sack fits a little loose.
Or maybe weapons. After Target, I went to Academy and saw that they had compound bow sets for sale, the Banshee Jr., with three steel-tipped arrows. I turned to my princess with a grin and told her that I had to get this for my youngest nephew.
"You don't love your other two nephews anymore? You can't get him a potentially lethal weapon. He'll kill the other two right away," she said.
"I'll get them bows and arrows, too. It'll be awesome."
"No. Your sister would come after you with one, and she would murder you."
"You know what, then? Paintball guns. Can you imagine?"
"Yes. So you don't get to buy those for the boys, either."
"I feel like you don't understand."
She looked at me in disbelief for a moment, and then shook her head and walked away. She does this quite a bit, and I used to think it was to show her frustration at the continuation of our marriage. That made me feel bad about myself, though, so I've decided that it's what she does when she's exceptionally impressed with my wit and charm.
In the end, we agreed on what we were getting my nephews, and it looks like the entire family will be relatively safe this year. But next year, I'm doing the Christmas shopping alone, so you people better watch your step.