I have a way with children

I've long held the belief that children are little more than retarded dogs. With dogs, you can train them where to shit in a matter of weeks, keep them quiet with a single glare, feed them once a day and in return, they'll galdly be a playful companion, fetch your paper and maim your homeless. Not so with children.

My complex is swarming with all sorts of kids, many of them well under five years old. Since I live in an apartment with poor/cheap people (the latter being me), the majority of the children belong to the indigent. It's a commonly known fact that poor people are among the most fertile beings on the planet and shoot out more kids than they have room for. Thus, once they become mobile, the children are turned loose into the parking lot, streets, hallways and my balcony to run unsupervised so the primary living unit has more room for birthing the next batch of bastards.

I've come pretty close to accidentally murdering several of these children as they dart about the parking lot, circling vehicles on their bikes like a manatee circling a cruise ship hoping to get hit for liability reasons. Not too long ago i told one particularly corpulant birthing machine that she ought to do some fucking parenting before her daughter got her face plastered across my tires. She threatened to call the police. I later spied the same kid on my balcony spreading the burnt charcoal from my grill all over the deck.

So when I pulled into my parking space and the same three year old kid jumped unsupervised directly in front of my car, I had had enough. Shaking off the sudden surge of adrenalien and half bladder of urine that escaped in the near-manslaughter event, I got out and yelled at the kid to stay out of the parking lot. She looked at me and said "you're not the boss of me," stuck out her tongue, and resumed drawing trees with chalk in my parking stall. Now normally, I would be happy to chop off the tongue of this insolent brat and leave it for a wild boar. However, I just so happened to have some gruesome photos from an OWI homicide in my briefcase. Like that Chinaman in Tiennemen Square, the toddler refused to move from my spot and continued to play with chalk so that I couldn't get my car all the way in. I cautiously displayed a photo of a crushed man who had been killed six different ways by a car. Needless to say, it wasn't all that pleasing to the toddler to see the headless torso on the side of the road. I sent her off with the admonishment never to sit in my parking spot again.

I'm not completely sure that I'm going to hell yet, so maybe I should open up a tough-love daycare center in my building. Of course, I'd have to accept payment in the only commodity poor mothers have to offer: placenta. At this point, I'll have to pass.