Supposed former goat-flesh junkie.

It's 8:30 AM and, yet again, I am to be found in the vile cluster, trying desperately not to pass out from lack of sleep and railing against the cloying stench of the "designer imposter" cologne that the gentleman who is sitting next to me bathed in. Additionally, this particular gentleman has brought with him a hyperactive three-year-old and I am moments away from wresting the action figure he is poking me with from his tiny hands.

Me: Hey! It's not nice to stab people with Power Ranger (tm) action figures!
Child: Screw you, you dumb crackah!
Me: What?
Child: What? You gone deaf, too? Shee-it.
Me: Do you want it back now? Are you going to be a big boy?
Child: Mofo, you can cram that thing were the sun ain't be shining.
Me: *reaching for pepper spray*
Child: Don't THINK I don't know what you be doin'. Man, I'll cutchoo. Cutchoo real bad.

Children loathe me. I find it nearly impossible to meet a child who, moments after meeting me, hasn't vomited the contents of their bellies onto me. Further, I don't really know how to talk to small children. I always want to talk to them like they are adults. I guess that's better than that awful baby-talk that everyone feels is appropriate for anything under 18. Yet it leads to complications.

Me: Now, wee one, whomsoever besoiled this garment will verily need to be apprehended and brought to swift, albeit fair, justice.
Child: *sucks on finger*
Me: Arroint ye, rump-fed runion! Speak with veracity and in haste!
Child: I wanna watch Spongebob.

See? It's like that. Movies like "Children of the Corn"--all, like, 19 of them--and "Children Under the Stairs" and "Village of the Damned" creep the everloving crap out of me, because, secretly, I fear the little ankle-biters. What's going on on their peanut-sized brains? Are they thinking about getting a pony for Christmas or of sharpening that machete they found in the hall closet? Of marshmallow-bedecked cereal or of sitting down to feast on your freshly-severed forearm? We just don't know because they don't speak very well. Unsettling.

Well, I have a rather plump book about Islamic jihad that I need to be reading now. Believe you me, I would much rather stay on here and tell you about the time that a child leapt down from a tree and tried to savage me before I subdued it with a baling hook. But that, my friends, is for another day.

Have a great day, Indiana.

Dom (Demir)