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I Hate Children by Ray Printer Friendly

Okay, so hereís the thing. Remember how I told you that any store you go into, thereís going to be that little Mexican kid? Yeah, that little son of a bitch got me good. I didnít really finish my last post, if you want to know the truth. I just quick stopped it and went to watch Batman Begins. I think we all understand why.

But the other day, while I was running all over Austin, trying to get my movies and knee-highs and stuff, I never got around to mentioning that I went to the Goodwill store. Thereís a huge sign on it, it reads, ďYour Halloween Superstore!Ē

I wondered if this was true. I hadnít ever been into a Goodwill, if you want to know the truth. Itís not because Iím too good, or because Iím stuck up or anything like that. Itís because they didnít have a Goodwill where I grew up, and when I lived in NYC, the Goodwill was way out of my price range, so I never went in.

So I went into this Goodwill, not really knowing what to expect. Claiming to be my Halloween Superstore, thatís a pretty big order to fill.

I pushed the door open, and my nose was immediately filled with an odor. A strange odor. It wasnít good, and it wasnít really bad. It was just strange. I looked around, unsure of where to start.

In the end, I decided on the sure-fire video game method, just find a corner, and make a perimeter check, then narrow the perimeter. I started out in the back corner and worked my way around. I was nearing the religious knickknacks (wooden signs of inspiration, knitted signs of inspiration, giant copper crosses, all kinds of clay ceramic stuff that had Bible verses on it, or people holding hands or kneeling) when I saw the kid.

The little Mexican kid. He stepped in front of me, obviously in a hurry to see just what was going on with the candle holders I was looking at. I stepped back, not particularly wanting to get slapped with a child molestation charge. The kid picks something up, and runs three feet back to his mother.

ďOkay,Ē I think. ďHis mom is right thereóshe knows that Iím not messing with her kid.Ē I step back up to observe the various items, secure that I can observe them in peace. Two seconds later, the kid runs back. He doesnít even look at me, even though by this time, Iím actually looking at a particular candle holder, wondering if itís a great idea or a terrible fire hazard. He just walks up and shoves me out of his way.

One thing about this kid, heís about two feet tall, probably weighs about thirty pounds or so. Me, Iím a lot taller than that, and a lot heavier than that. My point is, when this kid tried to shove me, he did it without thinking about manners or physics. He started to fall over.

Instead of doing the sensible thing, and just kicking the little bastard, I allowed him to grab onto my arm. He held onto me until he had his balance, and then proceeded to climb up onto the shelf in front of me, totally blocking my view of candle holders with a view of shithead kid.

Instead of beating his mother to death with a crucifix right in front of his eyes, which might have taught him at least a little bit of manners, I wandered off to the menís section.

I found a really cool trench coat for ten bucks, which I considered getting. I mean, Iíve already got the gut and the goateeóthe only thing I need is a coat and Iím Silent Bob. But I think that would be a bit of a cop-out, actually. I mean, any guy with some facial hair and a trench coat can go as Silent BobóI want to do something special. Iím still kicking around an idea that Trey and I talked about during his visit.

I said I wanted to go as Waldo, of ďWhereís WaldoĒ fame, but not as the skinny little guy that can blend into a picture like a great Cherokee warrior into the natural surroundings. No, I wanted to go as Waldo as he would be these daysófat, sloppy, and out of work. Not much of a stretch, really.

But picture it: heís got the glasses, one side taped together. About four dayís worth of facial hair growth, a pack of cigarettes tucked up into that goofy little cap he always wore, and maybe his red and white sweater is moth-worn and puke-stained. His jeans are missing the top button, his gut is hanging out all over the place. It would be great.

But Iím taking my nephews Trick-Or-Treating this year, and I donít want to scare them too bad. Maybe Iíll just go as a demon instead, and that way they wouldnít have to carry the emotional scars of seeing my belly hang out over my pants for the rest of their lives.

Anyways, so this punk-bastard kid that touched me, thatís what we were talking about. I forgot that he did it. I scratch my nose a couple times, making sure that I donít use my right handóthe hand that Iíve been using to paw through Goodwill stuff for a while. What I forgot, however, is that the little bastard kid, the horrid little shithead kid that has a little shithead mother that never taught him not to touch strangers, has touched my left hand.

So yeah, Iím writing this post in between Kleenex uses (and I donít mean that in a fun way), my eyes are watery and itchy and hurty. My throat is tense and unfun. My nose is raw from blowing it so much. When I run the world, if a little kid comes up and touches a stranger, it gets shot. Maybe one warning, but thatís it.

ďExcuse me, siródid that kid just run up and grab the hem of your pants?Ē

ďWhy, yes. Yes he did. Iím sure it was an accident, though. You know how kids a-Ē

BLAM!

ďHave a good day, sir.Ē

Yeah, I know it sounds a little harsh, but it really isnít. I mean, how hard is it to teach a kid not to touch other people? My nephews know that if you want Barbie to talk, you shoot her in the leg, and if you just want her to die, you shoot her in the head. Took me about two seconds to teach them that, and Iím what you would call a ďbad parent.Ē So I think a good parent should for sure be up to the task of keeping their slimeball kids from touching me.

Germy little bastards.

Iím going to bed now, and the only upside to this story is that I get to drink some NyQuil. Lots of it.

Night, Liíl Homies.


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