It's Called Having Standards

I sat at work today peeling an orange for my mid-morning snack and bemoaning my tendency to agree to impossible tasks when I suddenly had a flashback to preschool.

Specifically, I remembered the two types of kids that I reserved my greatest four year old indignation and hatred for. The kids who I would never play house with because they’d ruin the entire recess by insisting on being the baby and spending the entire time screaming so that I (in the role of Mother, aka boss) couldn't’ get dinner made or find time to clean the house before my husband got home. I suppose some people in our child worshiping society might argue that being four is an acceptable excuse for most any personality disorder but these people are mostly idiots, democrats or hippies ... so nobody should feel obligated to listen to them.

If you are the parent of a Gen Z'er, it would be wise to ensure they grow up to avoid the following children:

Kids who say “ruf” instead of “roof”
Kids who ask adults to start their orange for them.

Just to clarify: The first set of kids are not unaware of how the word "roof" should be pronounced (and frankly I’d cut them some slack if they were at least pronouncing it phonetically) they just think it’s cute to say the word incorrectly. A desire to be wrong but adorable is cause for much concern and a clear indication of mild retardation. And the second group? The wimpy kids who behave as if they had been born with some sort of fingernail defect? Co-dependent, needy, self important babies. Obviously all of these children would perish had survival of the fittest not been trumped by over protective parenting. And where do you think each group of children from my preschool class (“82 FOREVER!!!”) is now, 26 years later? I suspect they’ve all grown up to be the kind of adults I hate.

1) Women incapable of managing their own money and always willing to claim their boyfriend is smarter than they are.

2) Men who can’t sew on a button and happily turn over tasks like remembering their mother’s birthday to their wifey-poo.

Excuse me while I barf.