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Posts Tagged ‘kids

Dance Recital Claims Thirteen Lives

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OK, it didn’t really kill thirteen people, it killed me thirteen times. If you don’t have any children, then you’re not even really alive. You can’t claim to be living or getting the full experience that life has to offer until you have snot nosed punks running around. No, I don’t care what you say, you’re not alive until you’re part of the “baby club”, until you go full term.


Sure, you may have gone bungee jumping in the Amazon forest or toured the country in the luggage compartment of the Grateful Dead bus. Perhaps you’ve backpacked across Europe and made love in the rain next to a vineyard. I don’t know about you’re awesome, Mel Gibson-Lethal Weapon cool life, except that it pails in comparison to child rearing.


You might think that “hand fishing” in Peru was painful or that time you got shot over the nickel bag you were trying to score for your “cousin” was bad. Trust me; you don’t know pain until you’ve sat through a four hour dance recital. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying that I don’t love my children. I’m just saying that I’m going to hold this against them for the rest of their lives.


“Dad, can I borrow the car tonight?” “Do you remember that four hour dance recital I sat through for you?” It will become my answer to everything they want from now on.


As I think about it, I guess I didn’t mind the three minutes that I watched of MY children dancing. That was pretty cool. I guess it was the three hours and fifty-seven minutes of others people’s kids that drove me crazy, (that and my numb ass, nothing like limping out of the auditorium). You might be asking yourself, “What’s not to like about watching three and four year old children pretending to dance as they watch the teacher, who’s standing on stage with them?” To which I would reply, “I’m sorry I didn’t hear you, I was loading my gun.”


Too harsh?


Egg On!

Ramblin’ Rooster

Written by Ramblin' Rooster

June 1, 2009 at 5:23 am

Attention Advertisers, Kids Don’t Have Any Money

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I’d like to dedicate this to all the advertisers and marketers out there… this one’s for you. Go @#$% yourselves!

Thanks for ruining me as a child and likewise, turning my child into the most annoying thing on earth. I had to lock the television in the attic just to get a moment of peace. You’re destroying the family unit.

It all started, for me, when I was a wee child. Cartoons made the leap from Saturday only, to after school time slots. They were known as 22 minute toy commercials, segmented by other toy commercials. A brilliant maneuver by the demographic experts, pure genius. Back in those days it was accepted by society to leave your child at home after school while both, (or one) parent worked. Daycare, Dayschmare. After school program? How ’bout a TV? What makes this programming decision so exquisite is that once the child is home alone, completely engrossed, sucked into the abyss of the radiation waves emitting from the picture box, with no distraction, the seed is planted with no chasnce of interference from an authoritative figure. Then, when the parent(s) comes home, the child’s desire for what he/she has watched has already spread throughout their mind. The roots of the weed sunk deep inside their little brain. That’s when it happens, “Dad/Mom, can I have the new, ultra, super, tectonic, gamma, wowzer?”

The parent, usually still wound up for work, still working on the daily “to-do” list, probably needing to ram food down a child’s mouth before whisking them away to some practice or class, can’t even hear the words, only the tone. “Me needy-wanty” comes out of the child’s mouth and the parent(s) only hears a high pitched shrill, capable only by small children and the West Indies, split feathered Wantagoo bird.

Immediately friction is created and tension fills the room. There’s not a parent alive that doesn’t want to give or grant their child’s every wish and desire. Also, there’s not a parent alive that wishes they never had to go buy the new, ultra, super, tectonic, gamma, wowzer or at least not have to hear about it for hours on end.

So that’s why I hate the advertiser and his friend the marketer. They know all to well that a child can’t resist the Hollywood studio quality commercial that shows the awesome toy in an environment that took weeks to build. Of course the “Multi-rocket, mega-boost, stunt cycle” looks awesome in the commercial racing down the Styrofoam city landscape, jumping off the engineered ramp into the professionally painted foam blocks. Sometimes I even want one after watching, but that’s the thing, I’m an adult and I can deal with the fleeting temptation of the impulse buy. A child is lucky to make it through dinner without taking a knife to your wife’s neck demanding that a negotiation be made, “The Flying Dino-copter or mom’s life… It’s your choice dad!”

So thanks advertisers/marketers for not only making me feel like I can never be bald, old, short, fat, poor, pale, weak, or lacking the latest and greatest, now you’ve made my child a zombie of needing an overflowing toy chest.

I hope you like Hell.

Egg On,

Ramblin’ Rooster

Written by Ramblin' Rooster

October 9, 2008 at 4:15 am