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The Brutality Report - Nagging the Childless

If you're a parent I've never met and you talk to me about your children, shame the fuck on you. I have called Child Protective Services on you people repeatedly.

To all my many breeder pals, I want to offer an assurance: I really do like your kids. When you see me chuckling at their pratfalls or marveling at their ever-improving motor coordination or getting misty-eyed over the multicolored scribbly-scrawls magneted to your refrigerator, those are all real emotions. It's great that you obeyed your primary biological urge, and it's even greater that you are following up this biological urge with 18 years of solid or semi-solid parenting. Because of your work, our species will continue.

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But if we're being completely accurate, we're really talking about two biological urges here. One is the hankering to sire a child. Completely laudable. The other biological urge is the compulsion to nag and berate us childless adults for our lack of reproduction. This urge is not so laudable, but I get the feeling you can't totally control yourself. It is some sort of brutal neurological lizard-brain throwback to days when cavemen tried to weed out the reproductive laggards in their own clan. Both urges are equally strong. So even though we're pals, I'm always prepared for you to look me in the eye and say something like:

"I didn't know what love WAS until Binky [or whoever] came along."

OR

"You've never really experienced joy until you've seen your baby burp for the first time."

OR

"I don't think you've fully participated in the human experience until that first whiff of your own infant's multi-orifice bio-slurry."

If you say something like this, I'll probably respond with;

"Unfortunately, I'm a genetic carrier of Hamburger Syndrome."

OR

"I'm just so worried my children would turn out to be white supremacists."

OR

"But how make babies?"

Then we'll both smile, you because I said something witty, and me because I just judo-flipped your gross insult into a mere conversational speed bump.

Of course, if you're not my pal, I don't really care about your children. This is another neurological lizard-brain/caveman reaction. You're not of my clan. What of you? Maybe your offspring pose a threat. Their musky bio-slurry certainly smells threatening. Resources and caves are limited! Scat! If you're not my pal and you hassle me about my lack of a child, I will probably give you a somber answer that includes the words "testicular cancer survivor" or "savage bicycle accident" or "crushed in a forklift." It won't be witty, because I will just be trying to make you feel as awkward as you just made me feel. No winners in that conversation.

And if you're a parent I've never met, shame the fuck on you. Your kids suck. I have called Child Protective Services on you people repeatedly. There are seven billion of us already. Stop! You don't have to hassle me with any verbal nagging, because you hassle me enough with your mere omnipresence. So the next time you're in a public bathroom, loudly explaining to your toddler the mechanics of evacuation in clever one-syllable rhymes, you may hear a low, throaty growl coming from the adjacent stall. Don't worry, it's just me suppressing a different caveman urge. I can't totally help myself.

Previously - The Career of Sofia Coppola

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