I Hate Your Children

When alien archaeologists dig up the ruins of American cities in the Year 3510, they’ll probably hypothesize two things: (1) that man was entering the final evolutionary phase of our transformation into giant, fleshy amoeba, and (2) that the human race mysteriously worshipped a smaller, weaker species of hominid. One that required their servants to carry them to and fro in knapsacks and strolling devices.

I’m never been a big fan of the American philosophy of parenting – the one that says kids are God's gift to the universe. I can see being proud of your kids when they win a Nobel Prize for Literature, or discover a cure for AIDS, or rescue a young woman from a crowd of heavily dusted Hell’s Angels. But grinning ear-to-ear like a smug cunt because your four-year-old can scream at the top of his lungs? Hate to break it to you chief, but they stab people in other countries for shit like that.

You’ve gotten so out of hand about coddling your kids, you’ve actually brainwashed yourself into thinking “rotten” is another word for “adorable.” I can’t tell you how many times I’ve seen your kid doing shit that would land a grown man in prison, and yet you’re standing around, smiling like a Jehovah’s Witness in a bicycle store. Your kids are like puppies. Show them who’s boss and they aren’t going to fuck around. Let them do what they want and pretty soon they’re sneaking into your closet to take a dump in your wingtips.

If I started spazzing out in public, my parents would drop my pants right then and there and beat the ever-loving crap out of me. It was an effort to keep me from acting like a three-foot-tall asshole every time I had an audience. No counseling, no medication – just a good old-fashioned ass-whipping, with a healthy dose of public humiliation thrown in for good motherfucking measure.

And you know what? It worked. I became terrified of acting up in public. I scaled down my tantrum strategy. I became respectful and soft-spoken around adults. And it was all because my parents never backed down. They looked me in the eye and said, “We’re bigger than you are you stinky little fucker, and until that changes we’re running the show. Is this clear?”

Beatings are the difference between well-behaved kids, and kids I want to run over with a lawn mower. I wish more parents like you would use brute force on your kids. Or at the very least, I wish you would let me do it for you.