Yeah, well, you knew this one wouldn't last long. Funny Nick is funny for a period of time but then the rant quotient just gets to be too high. Lucky you -- as the reader, you just never know what it's going to be this time.
Well, let me tell you. Some people -- okay, lots of people -- okay, THE MAJORITY of people -- just weren't cut out to have children. Yeah, all right, the same exact amount of people weren't cut out to be married, have relationships, blah blah blah. If I may be so bold, these same people weren't cut out to take care of GI Joes, let alone pets, let alone people. Let alone themselves.
So, how to explain this one?:
There is an eight-year old boy. Maybe seven. Can't remember. But he's ALSO AUTISTIC. He can't speak a word, for fuck's sake. AN EIGHT-YEAR OLD BOY WHO CAN'T SPEAK A WORD. Yet someone -- I have no idea who and am not laying any blame -- yet -- allows this little boy to wander away from his home in search of the family dog. Can you imagine the circumstance in which someone could allow this to happen?
And the little boy wanders into a snowstorm, dressed only in his shirt and housewear, missing for over 48 hours as a desperate search is underway.
Amazing miracle! Dog comes back, searchers follow dog's tracks, boy is found! Boy is in critical condition!
BOY DIES. How the FUCK did this happen? How the FUCK was anyone who calls themselves human allowed to take responsibility for this little boy? WHO THE FUCK was able to fool anyone, let alone themselves, that they could possibly be capable of taking care of a small, handicapped human being?
Flashback. Eric Fucking Clapton. Small boy is unsupervised by expensive nanny. Small boy wanders over to window on XXXth floor. Small boy falls to death. Eric Clapton writes best-selling hit commemorating small boy.
What the jesus fuuuu . . . . ? ? ? ?
Flashback. My youth. I'm five or six. Playing with neighbour kid at his place. Unsupervised. We climb his fire escape. His little sister, age approximately two, follows us up. We let her. She falls through the railing to her death, which I see in Techniwhatthefuckmacolor every single day of my fucking life.
To the parents of each of these kids, I only have one thing to say: you deserve to hang in a particularly bad manner for your neglect. It isn't a fucking tropical fish you're raising, you complete and utter assholes. When you leave it baking in an unwatched car in its car seat in the noonday sun BECAUSE YOU THOUGHT THE WIFE HAD TAKEN IT TO DAYCARE it's GOING TO DIE, you asshole.
To the parents of that little boy who died in an inexplicably bad manner for inconceivable reasons, I have only this to say: may every dream be a bad one. May your guilt torment you until your own deathmoment, but may your own death be inconceivably horrible, inexplicably indescribably horrendous, to atone for your abandonment of your responsibility for a tiny, loving life that lived only to make you happy.
There is a special corner in Hell reserved for you. And trust me, I'll be there, and they don't call me Old Ironhands for nothing.