Is There No Place That's Sacred?
May 9, 2011

Just outside of Dallas, it’s 6:00 p.m. and a sun-drenched 75 degrees of temperate perfection. You couldn’t ask for better baseball weather. Moms and dads couldn’t ask for a better opportunity to get the kids down to the park where their eldest has a game. It's a beautiful facility with meticulously maintained fields, picturesque tennis and basketball courts, rolling acres of fresh-cut green grass, a glimmering playground, friendly folks, playful puppies, and an abundance of children fit to frolic. So pack your best attitude, bring all the sportsmanship you’ve got, and whatever you do, don’t forget a Ziploc bag of Fruit Loops and your hand-held video game system of choice!

Have you ever heard the theory that there is no universal reality - that we are each the unwitting master of our own reality that we create and that is unique to us?  It’s a fascinating notion that I’ve entertained at moments - at least until a moment comes along in which I’m forced to look at a six-year-old boy in such a glorious setting as the one I’ve just described, sitting on a shaded steel bleacher next to his mother, with his face 1.5 inches away from his Gameboy (or whatever the fuck kids play now - I’d rather include this unnecessary parentheticality than Google any such thing), periodically removing his left-hand to blindly pluck Fruit Loops from his personal Fruit Loop pouch to continuously fuel his relentless gaming. That’s when I say “horseshit” to the creating your own reality theory, because there is nothing inside me that could ever will such a horrific sight into being. That is the creation of abhorrent parenting, not me trying to mind-fuck myself by imagining into existence some tech-savvy Toucan Sam disciple that will need glasses and an epipen before he graduates kindergarten.

Wait… what’s this… he’s… standing up. I don’t believe it! His legs seem to function as designed by nature! Until this point I assumed his mom carried him from the SUV in some sort of energy-conserving gamer-child satchel. Could it be that she’s suggested he take a break from the 2-inch alternate reality he lives in and maybe engage in the flesh-and-blood real world, where there are dozens of children his age riding scooters, playing games, and just generally enjoying an hour out of the day that requires no batteries? What are you, high? She handed him $6 and sent him to the snack shack to get himself “a bag of Skittles and one of those giant pretzels you like” so he’d have the stamina to press buttons deep into the night. If he learns nothing else in life, at least he’ll be an expert on the colors of the rainbow, what with Fruit Loops being dinner and Skittles being desert.

Question: If I abducted this kid on his way to the snack shack, put him on a poorly crafted raft, and set him out to sea sans Gameboy, am I a bad guy? Could his life turn out any worse than if it stayed on its current track? Maybe he makes it, maybe he doesn’t, but either way, things can only get better. He’s spared from a future of diabetes, social ineptitude, and the lack of vaginal penetration that accompanies it, while his parents experience an immediate financial boon no longer spending a fortune on batteries and breakfast cereal. Plus, who’s to say he doesn’t wash ashore to be found by a magical dwarf named Willow? The kid’s bound to be well versed in magic and dwarves, given his commitment to gaming, and will enjoy a life where he actually relates to someone, something he’ll never do with his non-magical, non-dwarf parents. He’ll live a video game, and his parents will never have to deal with the mixed emotions that accompany suffocating their own child. It works out for everyone. I withdraw my question, having now realized I’m a bad guy for not doing this.

In my defense, however, I was unable to think it through in the moment, as I was suddenly distracted by a tug on my dog’s leash. I looked down to find a mentally retarded boy with my dog in a front neck lock, trying to insert its muzzle into his mouth. Without a care in the world, or any apparent adult supervision, this kid was literally trying to suck the nose clean off the dog’s face. When I suggested he stop trying to inhale my dog, he pulled away, and I could have hung anvils from the two-foot strands of viscous retard/canine saliva that were produced. Hey, he may have had the entirety of my dog’s skull in his overly salivous mouth, but at least he didn’t have a fucking Gameboy in his mongoloid hands on such a beautiful day. Come gym class, I’m picking Dogtard over the Fruit Loop Assassin every time. Especially if we’re playing Chubby Bunny.

I weep for the future of vaginal satisfaction.