One Household Please, and Hold the Kids

Christmas is just around the corner, and that can only mean one thing in the Umbrage household: wait a minute, do I even have a household? Does one guy living in a studio apartment with a picture of a potted plant count these days? Usually it seems implied that there are some kids and/or hamsters involved, but I don't know if that's part of the textbook definition. If I count, then some guy living out of a suitcase down at the Y isn't far off, and that's a pretty half-assed household if you ask me. There should be some kind of minimum standards.

Kids I most definitely do not have, and unless the Spirit of Christmas comes around and kicks my ass over it some day I'm not giving it high odds that will change. Why exactly is it that some starving hobo passing out in your entryway is considered a nuisance, yet a pack of bratty little ingrates dominating your whole life, barfing milk left and right and making you listen to Raffi is looked upon as a blessing? I think we've got our priorities in some kind of uncomfortable Twister position there.

The thing that gets me is the people who pretend that they like kids. Right. Just like I love being stung in the dick by a hornet. Nobody likes kids, not even other kids. Put two of them alone in a room together and you won't get ten minutes into a porno before one of them hits the other in the head with a toybox or the corner of a brick. Forget about not letting them see R-rated movies; the average kid kicks more ass than Steven Seagal. They just don't have the sound effects and guys back-flipping off the Hoover Dam to make it seem impressive.

Face the facts, kids are mean like the Viet Cong. If adults acted like that the whole world would be like Jerry Springer during sweeps week. The show, not the guy. You wouldn't be able to walk out in the rain without someone yelling that you'd peed your pants, and then out of nowhere somebody would pull your shorts down and rub some spaghetti in your hair. Yeah, what a wonderful world indeed. What a freakin' miracle of nature.

I was out on a date with a girl the other night and she told me she had babies, all I can say is thank God that window was open or I might not have gotten out of there in time. I found out from a friend later that I'd misheard her and she actually has rabies, got bit by a flying squirrel or something, so I kind of felt bad about flinging myself out of the restaurant like I did. I might give her a call to go out again some time, maybe in a couple weeks when the pills have had time to make sure she's not going to foam from the mouth on my upholstery or anything like that. She was nice, and it's not like she has kids anymore.

I want to meet the guy who suckered the world into thinking that having kids is a good idea. Probably the same guy who invented the diaper or Pokémon. All I'm saying is that if this guy holds a seminar, consider me there. If I could get just one tenth of that magic to rub off on me, within a week I'd have people paying me money to watch them kick themselves in the face. Granted, I hope I'd eventually come up with a better money-making scheme than that, since I'd probably get tired of flying all over the country to witness face-kickings and people getting blood on me and all that, but it would be a start. And it illustrated my point pretty well, I think.

So yeah, you can keep your "household," if that's what it comes down to. I'll console myself somehow as I recline on my spitup-free couch and sleep in until noon. And I hope you like Candyland, you poor bastards.

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