On ChildrenWednesday, November 16, 2011
He will have none of that, thank you very much.
(Photo by revenge-starved former child, Aaron Rester)
I'm often asked how I can hate children. It is, of course, the wrong question -- or rather, it is based on faulty premises.
First, lingering under that seemingly simple question's surface is the implicit, and somewhat smarmy, assumption that it's somehow wrong to dislike the snotty-nosed, sticky-fingered, self-absorbed little cretins.
Second, I don't actually hate them.
But I sure as hell don't trust them.
They weasel their way into our lives with feigned cuteness, and stay there by immediately recognizing and manipulating our weaknesses. If our species really deserved to be called sapiens, we wouldn't fall for their puerile scams.
If needed, I can provide reams of evidence that reveals their nefariousness, their unbridled duplicity, not to mention their overweening -- and under-weaned -- ids. I will, however, cite but a single example -- albeit one that has had a profound impact upon the development of my opinions on the subject.
Some forty-odd years ago, I agreed to baby-sit for the five-year-old offspring of some friends, while they -- no doubt -- exercised a better option. I am well-known for my generous and caring nature, so of course I wished to entertain the tiny human, and perhaps stimulate his nascent neurons. In the spirit of bonhomie, I taught him to play chess.
The little bastard took my queen.