When I Grow Up…


I have decided what I want to be when I grow up. For the uninformed, I am indeed older than dirt, but “growing up” has never seemed to have made it to my top ten of things to do in the time that I have been taking up space on the planet; that is, until today. I believe I have finally made up my mind. I have decided to become a game show host. What a great fucking job. Really! I’d get to work for perhaps four hours a day, tops… dress nice, get my teeth fixed for free, keep my hair in a box and mutter bon mots and non-sequiturs to walking bean bags as they spin the wheel, or guess the door, or pull the lever, or just yell shit at me until the get close to whatever the answer is that wins them whatever piece of expensive crap that they don’t need. I could go to work bombed out of my mind every day and no one would notice. How do people get those jobs? Is there a school? I don’t recall Phoenix University ever mentioning that course along with Lawn Mower Repair, Gun Smithing, Private Detection, or Taxidermy on their commercials for the International Correspondence School For Cretins That Failed Locker in Junior High.  Anyway… it’s either that or a US Congressman, either job I could do shit-faced all of the time… Actually, I haven’t completely decided if the truth be told.

Of course deciding what I want to be when I grow up is a luxury not necessarily afforded everyone. Actually it is afforded to no one at all, myself included. It is a myth, an apologue, a folk tale, a steaming pile of ass muffins. Because in reality, we have absolutely no choice in the matter whatsoever. You see, while everyone’s parents told them that they could be anything they wanted to be when they grew up, the plain fact of the matter is that phrase has always been an adult ruse to get children to eat the putrid slop that their parents have set before them to keep social services from taking them away and thereby losing the tax benefits. We are all warned that if we don’t eat all of our vegetables, we will never grow up to be smart enough to be President, but of course our parents all lied like rugs being the disingenuous, two faced, bottom feeding, scum-sucking low-lives that they in reality are. Do you honestly think that anyone actually says to themselves upon graduation from school that they want to be a flatulence analyst, or crime scene cleaner or high school guidance counselor?

Of course not, and yet they do.

And that is because all of this is decided early on in one’s social development… very early on. I happen to know for a fact that one’s entire professional path is settled by committee at the age of about five. In reality it is determined as early as pre-school when the school administrator pulls out a crisp, new manila folder, embosses one’s name upon the tab and creates…

“Your Permanent Record.”

And “Your Permanent Record” has much more to do with your life path than simply determining if you get into Yale as opposed to Ramapo Community College. Oh you betcha. Yessir! A whole lot more.

You see, when little Johnny or Muriel leave for their first day of school, after Mommy-boo and Daddy-kins have strapped their Spiderman and Hello Kitty backpacks on, taken a bunch of pictures, gotten all choked up and given reassuring hugs and kisses and sent them on their tender way… at the very moment adorable little Johnny or heart achingly sweet little Muriel take their first steps across the hallowed threshold of their kindergarten classroom and are greeted by the smiling visage of their teacher, as they shed their parkas and jam them adorably into their cubbys, and cautiously take their places at their cute little mini-people desks … at that time a plethora of high tech cameras and scanners are activated and begin combing their entire physical profiles, determining height, weight, bone density, brain size, etc., etc., to determine if Johnny or Muriel fall into either the Eloi or Morlock categories. You see H. G. Wells was not merely a writer of fiction, he was in fact a cryptic whistle blower.

The cameras take a blizzard of photos of their facial features, which are then instantly run through a secret government database to search for matches against known criminals, terrorists, thieves, casino cheats, cheese eaters and ne’er-do-wells. Once the children are determined not to pose an immediate threat to “the system,” (the one’s that are disappear for a few hours and come back as robots… their parents are all in on it of course), further tests are run over the subsequent first few days to categorize each child according to social skills, aptitude, physical comportment and coordination, attractiveness (or appalling lack thereof), potential for undercover work for the DEA and/or for space exploration. At the same time DNA samples are collected and analyzed and an extensive background check is run on each child’s criminal history, credit rating, known associates, social affiliations (five year olds who are Freemasons, Communists or suspected members of La Cosa Nostra are flagged at this point for further review), political party, places of assembly, and possible aliases. This task is arduous and often times sub-contracted to companies such as Playskool, Mattel, Scholastic or the publishers of The Weekly Reader, which of course are all fronts for the CIA and Interpol.

Look… every one knows this. Just because YOU don’t does not give you license to stare at this page like a mouth breathing imbecile.   Now snap out of it and read on. 

Anyway, once a profile of each child is assembled, a committee meets, or I should say “The Committee” meets… in secret of course… and determines whether Johnny of Muriel are suited for future positions such as super models, politicians, prostitutes, circus performers, junkies, drag queens, clergy members, career criminals, or the person that screws the caps on the toothpaste tubes, etc., etc. The really vanilla ones, the ones with about as much charisma as a garden hose… those are selected to work in high finance and law.

Now this process has in fact been going on for years. I would mention that aliens invented it, but you wouldn’t believe me…. even though it is true. And while it serves to determine the usefulness of society’s future members and their proper place in same, it also serves a dual purpose of determining exactly how much potential for legal liability your child imposes upon the school system during their educational term. Yes, this too is determined from day one. After all…. All time is money. Thus a battery of lawyers from Gerber spends days and nights analyzing the potential for students to be the cause of lawsuits and insurance claims. And ever diligent, they are always looking for was to improve on statistics and to find ways not to have to pay out claims because some parent decided to sue the shit out of the school system because their little Eggbert began a sentence with… “Hey, watch this!”

Ah…. But there’s the rub. Because in their quest for lowering risks and cultivating ever more perfect members of society, they have in fact now pulled back the curtain to reveal their grand system to all who would merely take the time to look.

You think I’m fucking kidding?

You… think… I’m… joking?

Check this shit out….

From the Attleboro Sun Chronicle in 2006 (and this was only the beginning):

Tagged out
Monday, October 16, 2006 11:29 PM CDT

Tag is now out during recess at Willett Elementary School in Attleboro.

So is (sic) touch football and any other unsupervised “chasing” games that are deemed to pose the risk of injury as well as liability to the school.

“It’s a time when accidents can happen,” said Principal Gaylene Heppe, in her second year at the helm of Willett.

Heppe included the new rule as part of a standardized set of playground rules that were not in play upon her arrival.

In doing so, she joined in a growing movement against traditional games played by young children in school gymnasiums and playgrounds. A few years ago, school administrators in the area, as well as around the country, took aim at dodgeball, saying it was an exclusionary and dangerous game. Modified versions now include softer balls and ways for children to re-enter the action.

While no district-wide policies banning contact sports at recess appear to have been put in place locally, many principals are making up new rules in an atmosphere reflecting society’s increasingly cautious and litigious nature. Elementary schools in Cheyenne, Wyo. and Spokane, Wash. banned tag at recess this year. So, too, did a suburban Charleston, S.C. school, outlawing all unsupervised contact sports. Reasons cited by school administrators largely focused on safety; kids would get too rough or run into each other, giving rise to parent complaints and threats of lawsuits. Another reason cited was that in a free-for-all activity at recess, such as tag, some children would become unsuspecting, and unwilling, participants in the game.


So go ahead… call me nuts.

Thanks for stopping by.

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