Dear Luv Doc,
We did the Secret Santa drawing for my office on Friday and whoever my Secret Santa was got me a huge carton of Cheez-Its. I don't even like Cheez-Its. They are nasty and make your breath smell bad. So my question is, do I try to figure out who this person is so I can secretly hate them, or should I let go and let God and pray for better luck next year?
– Feeding Pigeons
First of all, I think it's an EPA violation to feed pigeons Cheez-Its. If it's not, it probably should be. As crafty as those little bastards can be, I am pretty sure they haven't committed any atrocities worthy of death by Cheez-Its. That would have to be some really heavy shit – like getting on an entrance ramp at 20 mph or letting your toddler enter produce codes into the scales at Central Market while everyone else is waiting.
I know some of those enraged people might be contemplating infanticide, but not me. I am contemplating beating the parent to death with the toddler. It would send a message to all the other asshole parents, and besides, toddlers have a lot of cartilage, don't they?
OK, I think we can both agree that I might have crossed a line there, but that line was an imaginary line ... as opposed to the very real line that grows behind the numerologically inept toddler. There is a difference.
To paraphrase our greatest living president, James Earl "Jimmy" Carter Jr., I've committed infanticide in my heart many times. In fact, there have been certain poignant moments – a toddler birthday at Chuck E. Cheese's for instance – where my heart wanted to re-enact the theatre scene from Inglourious Basterds in the plastic ball pit. Fortunately my head prevailed and I redirected my murderous rage toward a much more deserving group: the parents.
While I was burning down the entire Chuck E. Cheese's – toddlers, parents, innocent pimply faced minimum wage teenagers included – it occurred to me that the parents must have had parents and grandparents, and therefore the chain of culpability stretched back until the beginning of creation. At that point the entire universe is to blame and goddamn it, I refuse to spend the limited time I have in this life burning down the entire goddamned universe.
I mean, I will admit to being a bit of a pyro, but that is just ridiculous. So I decided to leave the kids in the ball pit and run down the street to the liquor store for a boot flask bottle of whiskey. I am not recommending that for you, however, because combining whiskey with Cheez-Its is an abomination as nearly as heinous as putting pineapple on pizza or spooling toilet paper from the bottom of the roll. You're probably better off killing ... excuse me ... feeding pigeons.
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