So my day starts out, shittily enough, at the dentist. Not only that, but it’s a cavity filling. And not only that, but as usual, when he takes out the old filling, the dentist says “uh oh,” and I spend an hour in the chair, pay more money, and have to come back for another piece of my growing in-mouth porcelain collection (I hear they’re going to do replicas at the famous Franklin Mint. “See the famous Gigantic Cavernous Hole-Filling in Freakishly Decayed Tooth, with adorable hand-painted, one-of-a-kind teddy bears in honor of 9/11!”). I find it strangely depressing to know that no matter what I do, my teeth will eventually rot away into nothing and I’ll star in Fixident commercials at age 45.
So, as you can guess, I wasn’t in a great mood afterwards.
Fast forward just a little bit to lunch. Much of the dev team (the cool part of the dev team, anyway) goes out to the pseudo-swanky place along the ‘nue, Evening Star. It features old-tymey Pizza-hut-of-yore-style booths with tall backs. Not the sort one can easily see over.
Now, let it be said that I hate children. I hate yours most of all. So it’s nothing personal against the little twerp who sticks his shaved head over the side of the booth–which necessitates climbing up and putting his disgusting, germ-laden feet on the fucking table–and tries to entertain himself by attracting our attention.
Now I’m long skilled in restaurants frequented by selfish bastards who inflict the litter of their loins upon everyone else in the assumption that if they think a fart smells lovely, then everyone else will want to share in the aroma. The secret normally is: keep your gaze unaverted and let the Rhesus-monkey-like attention span be distracted by the next mote of dust that flies by.
But oh, no, this one is fixed with the singularity of purpose that only the progeny of the truly cow-like of intellect can achieve. He keeps doing it while his mother continues reading her menu or talking on her obnoxiously-brandished cell phone or whatever Yuppie Scum behavior that future matricides engage in to the extent of NOT NOTICING YOUR VERMIN IS OUT OF CONTROL. So he keeps it up.
That’s fine. I am used to this and am able to continue my witty and sparkling conversation unabated, with only the occasional mention of the impending death of the little darling to my rapt audience–and nary a glance in his direction.
Well, that’s not enough for the birth control failure, so he proceeds to THROW SOMETHING INTO OUR BOOTH, bouncing off my (subsequently un-drunk) water glass and falling between my colleague Oscar and I.
Oscar is a very forgiving sort and not prone to violence, so he is determined to stay where he is with only a mild comment. I, however, am past passivity and prepare to lob the offending missile back in the carpet monkey’s general direction, hopefully hitting his goddamned mother’s food, when I see what it is: A FUCKING USED BANDAGE.
Oscar’s immobility coupled with my extreme desire not to catch encephalitis or whatever fun disease was going around the viral factory that the mother clearly dumped the kid in daily before the crumb-creep doubtless got kicked out, causes me to refrain from confronting the mother immediately, loudly, and with threats of lawyers.
OK–I’ll say this one last time. I believe that it takes a family, in their own home or property, to raise a child. It does not take a village, unless I get a vote on whether you get to have a child. I do not owe you a damn thing because you choose to end your social life forever by contributing to overpopulation. I do not have to understand you, I do not have to make allowances, and I do not need to help you out. Are you a suffering, struggling mother? Then you shouldn’t have reproduced until you were able to care for it.
I do not go into restaurant with my cockatiel. I do not let him screech over the conversation of other diners. I do not buy a monkey and let him crawl into your booth and then fling his crap into your food. Any of these things would get me ejected at best and probably arrested, in addition to sued down to my skivvies.
So why the fuck do you have the gall to bring in your yard ape indoors before it has learned to behave in a manner that at least doesn’t bother others who didn’t participate in the sex acts that created your bundle of post-partum depression?
As Ginger, who no doubt finds this post far more entertaining than 99% of my blog, would say, GROSS! NOT OK.