Janet CollinsChildren sicken me
February 8th 2008 01:16
ALL ABOUT this stuffy office are mediocrities with smug expressions and an enormous sense of self-importance — these are men with children.
Something about having procreated, gives these cliquey donkeys a sense of superiority, which they’re only too eager to exhibit.
Fark knows why they’re so hoity; just about all of them are overweight, and dress in that bland casual, sneakers and shirt overhanging-their-jeans look.
These are family men, and they’ve got nothing but contempt for a single, 39-year-old man without attachments, who refuses to subscribe to their insipid propriety.
While I’m off getting drunk with my English born singer pal, they’re leading sensible lives, growing fat on sausages and beer in the mortgaged confines of their Western Sydney houses.
And that’s the thing — how come all the blubber? The girls in this place are all fat as stuffed hogs as well: it seems to be the standard here.
You could say I’m an outsider, who hasn’t discovered the immeasurable returns of getting up at five am to bottle-feed a dribbling brat, or wipe its bum, and watch it grow up to become an obnoxious idiot who lies about the house and watches Big Brother.
Well, anyway, I’ve seen enough examples of the horrors of child rearing to have long held resolutely to avoid it.
Like, I recently spent an afternoon with a mate I’d not seen for many years. Now he and his missus have a toddler and a baby.
I feared this kid, as I just knew it would do something to disgust me.
Sure enough, at the dinner table I was stricken to be told I was sitting next to the tacker, who sat on this elevated chair that looked like a potty.
I’d got one forkful of grub into my gob, when he says, “Daddy, I have to go to the toilet.”
Cringing, I listened as daddy asked, “Number ones?”
“Nooooooo,” replied junior, in a sorry, pained voice, “I have to go pooies!”
I cut short my stay, backing out the door while babbling a hasty excuse.
I don’t expect to be invited back, which is one big hallelujah as far as I’m concerned.
So people, now that you know how I feel about them, don’t have kids — they’re messy and unpleasant.
Something about having procreated, gives these cliquey donkeys a sense of superiority, which they’re only too eager to exhibit.
Fark knows why they’re so hoity; just about all of them are overweight, and dress in that bland casual, sneakers and shirt overhanging-their-jeans look.
These are family men, and they’ve got nothing but contempt for a single, 39-year-old man without attachments, who refuses to subscribe to their insipid propriety.
While I’m off getting drunk with my English born singer pal, they’re leading sensible lives, growing fat on sausages and beer in the mortgaged confines of their Western Sydney houses.
You could say I’m an outsider, who hasn’t discovered the immeasurable returns of getting up at five am to bottle-feed a dribbling brat, or wipe its bum, and watch it grow up to become an obnoxious idiot who lies about the house and watches Big Brother.
Well, anyway, I’ve seen enough examples of the horrors of child rearing to have long held resolutely to avoid it.
Like, I recently spent an afternoon with a mate I’d not seen for many years. Now he and his missus have a toddler and a baby.
I feared this kid, as I just knew it would do something to disgust me.
Sure enough, at the dinner table I was stricken to be told I was sitting next to the tacker, who sat on this elevated chair that looked like a potty.
I’d got one forkful of grub into my gob, when he says, “Daddy, I have to go to the toilet.”
Cringing, I listened as daddy asked, “Number ones?”
I cut short my stay, backing out the door while babbling a hasty excuse.
I don’t expect to be invited back, which is one big hallelujah as far as I’m concerned.
So people, now that you know how I feel about them, don’t have kids — they’re messy and unpleasant.
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