If you have kids, they are assholes. I have three kids and the older two are assholes and the younger one is excelling in his Intro To Acting Like an Asshole 101.

And if you are a parent, or an owner of children, and you think your kids are darling little snowflakes, guess what? You’re a bigger asshole than your children. I want to slowly strangle every one of you, or beat you into a mass of jelly with a rusty piece of rebar.

First, these parents are irritating fucking know-it-alls who drive a Prius, read fancy books, are offended by absolutely everything in the world, and call me up when my middle child annihilates one of their fucking wimps on the playground.

Seriously, I had a parent call me up and say, “Fozz #2 hit my son when they were playing football.”

My response was, “Have you ever seen a football game? This is what children do. If your son doesn’t like it, maybe he should blog about Lena Dunham or collect leaves or concentrate on growing a vagina.”

Let’s not forget that these dickshits wreck their children’s lives by making them super picky over food. Nothing like having a kid ask 10 questions about the plate that’s been put in front of them. These children will grow up to murder sorority girls, pickle their eyeballs, and make jelly out of their uvulas.

Let me tell you about my relationship with food. I grew up in an Italian household and if you didn’t eat the fucking food that was put in front of you two things happened: you were told to eat the food or lose your teeth and you were subjected to a sledgehammer of guilt that could stop a full grown female bull elephant in heat.

(One of the mainstays at each dinner was wine. My grandfather would give us wine and Sprite. Fucking delicious. Other mainstays included Budweiser beers, unfiltered Camel cigarettes, the best goddamn sauce in the world, hilarity, and conversation carried on at the loudest volume possible.)

Unfortunately, my wife and I know parents who keep their kids gluten and GMO free and everything else free. These people shop at Fresh Goods or Fresh Fields, or Full of Shit Fields, whatever that place is named. I want to call it the Killing Fields because the people shopping their warrant killing.

They want them to eat healthy snacks and nutritious lunches and the parents expect these rules to follow when their dipshits stay at our house. This shit flies right the fuck out the door when these little precious darlings visit – somehow they surmounted the walls, moats, punji pits, trip wires, machine gun nests, pillboxes, and swinging logs that surround the Fozz Compound.

The little visitors get pizza, soda, sweets, and a couple of vegetables to balance the shit out. Guess what? They motherfucking love the shit out of that food. And I send them home and they fucking hate their parents. And I laugh and laugh.

It’s not just the food, it’s how the parents slowly turn their kids into fucking little Woody Allens loaded up with neuroses, worry, and anxiety. Good Christ, let the kids be kids. Sure, you want to protect them and teach them, but they need to go out and get dirty and fling sticks at each other and poop in a creek. (My middle son did this one day and became an instant hero of the neighborhood kids.)

Don’t think that I’m a perfect parent. Fuck no. When my first son was born, my father’s business partner said to me, “Smile and nod when people tell you how to raise your kids, and then do what you think is right. 90% of the time, you will make the right choice. The other 10% is called making mistakes and learning.”

So am I being a hypocrite by railing against these asshole parents? I don’t care. The way I see it, those kids are going to grow up and be whiny pussies who complain when they don’t win, force their opinions and habits on society, clamor for safe spaces at their colleges, and demand that their beautiful snowflakes get fucking trophies for participating in a soccer league when they are 5 years old.

You know, just like they do these days.

PS
One of the neighborhood kids, on a hot June day, refused to drink out of the hose like my kids. Drinking out of a hose fucking rocks because, well, it’s a hose and you feel like a horse, or outlaw, or badass. “I only drink bottled water,” he says to me. “Well, then go home and get bottled water,” I said back. And he did. And my kids told me later that this kid was a little sissy.

Thing that made me smile:
Watching a guy in the car next to me rock the fuck out to whatever he was playing. He was smiling and laughing and the car was shaking because he was rocking so motherfucking HARD. I love that guy.