Oh, Twitter, Don’t Get Me Started

For some reason my eye strayed across one of those hash tag Twitter trending things that asked you to #DescribeBabiesin3Words. Oh, the possibilities. I get grumpy for a lot of reasons but most recently it’s been the goddam Kidquarium at the gym. People drop their kids there to bash each other and scream while Mom or Dad is working out. I’ve already laid the word on the kids and their hapless caretaker once for fire-siren screeches occurring while I was doing a Death March with a couple 20-pound kettlebells held aloft, something you don’t want to be startled into dropping. But there’s no shelter from it. The room has big plate glass windows so the parents can presumably see the infants, or vice versa, so you can’t shut down the sound, and of course it does nothing to curb the din and hazard from the uncontrolled little shits who run back and forth while Mom or Dad is doing business at the desk or feel the need to express themselves with that pointless squeal that children think is fun to make. There is nothing endearing about it, or them. They know the only power they have is the power to annoy people, they aren’t made to stifle it by their indulgent parents whom you can see thinking THISISMINEIMADEITARENTWEWONDERFUL, and so they take it and run with it.

An old Net buddy of mine once told me how his Native American nanny nipped that kind of shit in the bud: she would cover his mouth and pinch his nostrils shut as soon as he started screaming, right from stroller age. After a a few occasions of realizing that screaming would get his air supply shut off, he dropped the habit. He grew up to be a blazingly intelligent, thoughtful man who was an early success in computer languages and remains a sought-after lecturer in semi-retirement, so I can’t think it damaged him.

No one has the guts to do this. I’ve toyed with the idea of suggesting it but people would get all bent out of shape. I hope I can restrain myself from shot-putting one of the little bastards; everyone would make me the bad guy and I don’t need the grief. I came so close yesterday when some little toddle-scum in a pink dress set up an endless squalling because It didn’t want to go in the Kid Room and be left by Its mother. The last I saw, the mother and the brat were both sitting at the front desk talking to the manager. I had already said Fuck under my breath so many times that I sounded like a porn script.

Infants DO NOT BELONG IN GYMS. There presence is hateful and hazardous and I can’t begin to pity enough the poor staff who have to watch them. I don’t feel the least bit sorry for the parents. This is the USA in 2015 and they had a choice. So I looked at that Twitter hashtag and typed: “Annoying screaming snotballs.”

It fair set my brain on fire for a moment. No more needed; stop having them; useless fuck trophies; worthless screeching nuisances; repulsive little grubs; wasted dog food. I caught myself before going on a binge. I could have been here all afternoon.

14 thoughts on “Oh, Twitter, Don’t Get Me Started

  1. Fuck trophies is the one my BFF said when she kept seeing the IVF mums with their twins or more! Fucking love it. One of my retail bitch-sites usually calls them ‘precious sneauflakes’ which is also pretty damn cool.

    That said I got mommy-jacked by said bff when I was bitching about my Bengal being in constant Yell Mode. She called me a mommy and then went on a rant about her 1 year old’s noise.

    I think perhaps there is some kind of shut-off-valve that happens to your respect for others tube when you breed?

    • I can’t claim to originate that. It came from some child-free webring (remember when there were webrings?) where I ordered a bumper sticker that said Cats Not Brats.

      Also the source for one that I used on a tiresome woman who followed me througha parking lot calling me a “miserable person” for asking her two children — fairly civilly — to kindly get out of the way of my shopping cart (they had decided the checkout aisle was their playground). “I’m not the one cluttering up the world with my crotch droppings,” I told her.

      Daily heavy lifting is the only thing that keeps me from violence.

  2. They have pre-and-post birth fitness classes at my gym, at the latter the women all show up with prams and babies. Luckily this is in another area of the gym and I don’t hear anything other than the annoying thumpa-thumpa disco music they insist on playing.

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