There are a lot of kids in my new neighborhood. Like 75 or something. They’re always running around outside, every single day, in the yards and on the streets, laughing and talking and riding their bikes and jumping rope and whatever else it is kids do.
It’s natural to assume that because I have a family, a child of my own, I would be pleased. Never assume. Because, as we all know, I hate kids. I can’t stand the noisy bastards. They’re annoying and rude and I don’t like any of them. Obviously, I like my own son, as he’s the fruit of my loins; some days, I question just exactly how much I like him. But still, he’s cute and he’s mine and looks like me, and therefore acceptable.
These other kids on the street are the exact kind of riff-raff I intend to keep away from Ry. He needs the calming steady influence of me and other adults. No crazy kids to give him ideas.
And can I just ask, what the frick is wrong with these kids anyway? I didn’t know they still played outside anymore. Yet every time I go to the house, there they all are, outside. Outside!
Don’t they ever watch TV or play video games, just sit in the house and be the fat lazy American children we all know and love? Sure, in every other neighborhood in the country, but in mine they have to the kind that play outside, running and screaming and having fun and generally just irritating me and messing up my constitution.