Kids are like retarded midgets. They're short, they crap on themselves, and they'll believe anything. The other day I was walking around the mall surrounded by children when I suddenly thought, "Damn, I could really go for some pie right now." Then, after I walked by that big ceramic glue statue that kids play on, I experienced a shocking revelation. I hate children. Unfortunately, due to certain Anti Child Abuse laws I'm not allowed to throw bricks at them. Not even those little foam bricks that look like bricks but really aren't. Normally, when I can't physically abuse somebody, I choose to insult them until they become depressed or kill themselves (whichever comes first). Much to my dismay, I discovered that most kids don't respond to phrases like "toaster-humping nun-licker" as well as you'd think. In fact, only the nearby security guards seemed to hear what I said and they kindly escorted me out of the mall after clubbing me over the head with some sort of clubbing device they call a "club". Because dirty curse words don't scare or confuse children, I discovered that messing with their heads is much easier if you tell them lies. These exact lies shall be shared with you in the following words and sentences and stuff. Hula to your doom, foolish children! Hula hoops cause cancer. No, really. I'm serious. Do you know why they cause cancer? They're in the shape of a ring. That golden thingy with the fake diamond on it that your mom wears and your dad removes whenever he's hitting on other women at bars? That'll give you a tumor. Fruit loops? They're trying to kill you, too. I wouldn't trust that bastard Toucan Sam if he were the last cereal mascot on the face of the earth. He'll try to bribe you with his delicious sugar-flavored fruit-colored circular bits of disease. Follow his nose, indeed. Follow it TO DEATH!!! Don't trust the ring, kids. Hell, even your cell phone will give you cancer. Is it because you're putting electric phone wave thingys near your vulnerable brain every time somebody calls you? No. It's because that infernal piece of technology rings. It rings like the bloody breakfast cereal dispensed by that filthy communist toucan!!! You can credit the red in his cheeks to that damn Jack Daniels. Santa's an alcoholic, kids! Ya know, that wasn't the real Santa whose lap you just sat on. Oh no, that's far from the truth. That wasn't the jolly old guy who breaks into your house on Jesus' birthday. That was a homeless man. A dirty, stinking homeless man in a shirt that looked red only because he just got done sacrificing a goat for the cult he founded and he happened to spill a little bit of his offering to Satan all over his new shirt. He wasn't asking you what you wanted for Christmas. That's what people do when they've had too much egg nog. It's called "vomiting". Why did your parents set you up with a partially-conscious Satan-worshipping old man? They hate you. In fact they're not even your parents. You're adopted. Your real parents were mentally-challenged axe murders who could often be found eating the flesh of the living and doing other evil things like jaywalking and using the internet to steal music from talented artists like Metallica and Milli Vanilli. They gave you to your adoptive parents when they realized that you'll never be a very good axe murderer. In fact, they figured that you'll never amount to anything, and they're right. You won't. They bring down your self esteem by making you think you have that bed wetting problem. Truth be told, you don't wet the bed. Your fake father wakes up at 2AM, pisses all over your bed while you're sleeping in it, and then goes back to sleep. It's the least he can do to punish the child of a couple of axe murderers. That's why he had you sit next to that drunken hobo at the bus station. I hope you had fun! Oh, and that wasn't a candy cane in Santa's pocket. The women kissing on that computer weren't in love. They weren't in love with that goat, either. Or the electric toothbrush. That computer your parents own isn't for what you think it is. They may tell you that it's there for "word processing" or "checking stocks" but in reality it's there so they can watch girls kiss each other. Your father my say "don't go into my work room, I'm typing a report" but he's really touching himself. Your mother says it's because he can't find his genitals. Genitals are used in a process scientists and teachers call "sexual intercourse". This process is often videotaped in hotels. In this so-called "sexual intercourse", a number of things are involved. It often involves a man and, if he's lucky, a girl. Other times a lot of wine is included and sometimes another girl and a badger. A very hairy badger. Because the man's kinky like that. Unfortunately for the male, the second woman and the animal stolen from a nearby zoo usually can't attend this miracle of nature. The sex between a man and a woman begin when the man walks over to the woman at the bar or PTA meeting and buys her a drink with a large amount of alcohol in it. The woman consumes it in between crappy estrogenic anecdotes while the man pulls a grand piano out of his pants. He then clubs the jabbering wench over the back of the head with that large musical instrument. Why isn't the pornography section at your local Hollywood Video filled with salsa dancing instruction tapes? Immediately afterward, the man picks up the woman and throws her over his shoulder (or throws her in a truck if she's fat) and romantically whisks her away to Makeout Peak, the secluded mountain getaway where most people go to have sex in cars. (If your town does not have a Makeout Peak, sex is most likely banned in your town because city hall is run by Catholics. Move immediately.) Once the man has driven to Makeout Peak, he wakes his woman by gently tapping her shoulder and screaming, "WAKE UP, SUGAR PANTS!" into her ear. The woman will become so aroused she'll rip her pants off to reveal black spandex pants with which she will use to salsa dance the night away! Somewhere during her salsa dancing the guy gets her pregnant or something. I'm not really sure how this sex thing works. But remember, kids, sex is a delicate thing and whatever you hear at school in sex ed is obviously a bunch of crap because the other kids hate you. Yes, you. They hate you. You smell like cat pee and they're all conspiring against you and that feline urine odor. And...uh...some more bad stuff. Where are the pants in this picture? Oh, you can't see them? Neither can they. You may have noticed that you go to a different doctor than your parents. You sometimes see a pediatrician while your mother and father periodically talk to a special doctor they call a "parole officer." He doesn't take their temperature, but he has to check up on them a lot. Your pediatrician is always sure to take your temperature, though. And here's a fun fact: "pediatrician" is another word for "mechanic." Now why would you see a mechanic? Because you're a robot, that's why. Your real mother was a vending machine and your dad was one of those dirty coffee machines from Service Merchandise. And, for continuity purposes only, I have to say your parents were retarded serial killers, too. Yes, that's right. Your mom pushed out packages of Sour Patch Kids much more slowly than the other vending machines because she was retarded and then somehow picked up an axe with that floppy coin slot of hers and killed people. Don't ask how it's possible, it just is. The snacks and chips are fairly priced, but the death is way too expensive. I know these things. I've seen Attack of the Killer Vending Machines Part IV: Yes, You're Still Going to Die And No, You Probably Won't Get Your Change Back Even If You Ask Nicely But You Can't Because You're Dead!!!!, a movie I just made up, like eight times. That's like almost ten times! And you know what they say about the number ten: it's bigger than eight, but not as much as eleven is. Don't fuck with eleven. It's dangerous. This concludes yet another page filled with indecipherable nonsense. If this gibberish is used properly, though, we can make many children hate Santa because they'll think he's homeless. They'll give vending machines big hugs thinking it's some kind of loving child-parent reunion. And they'll most likely avoid sex because they can't salsa dance. Because after all, are children really anything more than small people to assemble jeans in our basement for meager wages?