Friday, August 25, 2006

ThePeach Wants to Punch 4-Year Old Children in the Face

This post is not going to make me look good…

Damnit, there goes my motherfucking humanitarian of the year award!!

So, I think that by now you have come to realize how much I hate my job. In case you needed another example, here’s a summary of my day last Monday:

10am-5pm: Enter Data. Lose partial eye-sight. Lose ability to bend wrists. .Lose will to live. Lose the ability to use language and can only communicate in a series of 1s and 0s.

TheBoss: Hey, Peach!! How’s that data-entry coming? Almost done?
ThePeach: 110111000011100101010 (“go die, you motherfucker.”)
TheBoss: Wow, you’ve been doing this data-entry forever. I guess 500 8-page surveys was a lot to ask.
ThePeach: 111000110101010000111000 (“I’m going to light the box of data on fire and throw it at your face”).
TheBoss: Too bad I didn’t realize before that all the data you’ve been entering for the past 4 months is too old and we can’t actually use it. But luckily there’s another, more recent, even bigger box of data that I’m going to get you to enter in its place!
ThePeach: 00011110011010101001110001!!!!!!!!!!!!! (I HATE YOU!!! I HATE YOU!!! I’M GOING TO THROW MY OWN SHIT AT YOU THE NEXT TIME YOUR BACK IS TURNED!!! I’M STAYING HOME TOMORROW JUST TO EAT CORN AND DAIRY PRODUCTS TO MAKE IT A GOOD ONE!!! WATCH YOUR BACK, BITCH!!)

5pm-7pm: TheBoss makes me go for an after-work drink with him. He yells at me for only ordering a Sprite (I needed to detox from my weekend) and proceeds to get buzzed from the multiple beers he orders.

TheBoss: You know, when my wife comes to bed and takes her shirt off, I just think “there’s my baby’s milkers!”.
ThePeach: 111001010100100011100000!!!!!?????

So anyway, that was my Monday. As you might fathom, between the soul-dredging work and the mind-raping boss, my job is a wee bit aggravating. Now, add to that equation the fact that, during the summer months, the room next to my office is A MOTHERFUCKING SUMMER CAMP FOR PRE-SCHOOLERS. Yes. From early June to late August, I basically share my office-space with 50 4-year olds.

My sex drive has decreased dramatically. There’s no better birth control then walking into the office like the hungover whore you are, being hit with a wall of children-stench (sunscreen, juice, and urine – this is my new kryptonite) and passing 50 screaming whine-traps:

Chil’uns: SHE HIT ME!!! I WANT MY JUICE BOX!!! YOU’RE NOT THE BOSS OF ME!!! I WANT MY MOMMY!! I NEED TO PEE!!!
ThePeach: Oh, sweet Jesus. No. No.

They should make the local highschoolers come sit in my office for a day. Even if it caused just one-less deformed crack-baby to come screaming into the world through his 14-year old mother’s birth canal, it would be worth it. This town is crawling with crack-whores and their screaming bastards. And happy social workers.

The camp is a fun-with-science theme that cycles chil’uns on a bi-weekly basis. Every second Monday is “cheer day”, which is as awful as it sounds. First, the kiddies learn their camp cheer, which is as follows:

Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!! WHAT-WHAT!!! (you need to envision 50 4-year olds ‘raising the roof’ as they say this).

It is imperative that you understand that this cheer is repeated approximately 100x/day. Anytime one of the counselors wants this kids’ attention?

Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!! WHAT-WHAT!!!

And the children screeeeam this cheer. They fucking love it. Their shrill little voices penetrate the walls of my office, making my teeth grind and my uterus shrink each and every time. I wouldn’t be surprised if my uterus had completely disappeared by now, leaving in its place a bear-trap soaked in poison.

Each time I hear a “WHAT-WHAT”, I feel a compelling urge to punch something on beat. Like the wall. Or the stinky face of a chil’un:

Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!!
ThePeach: *PUNCH-PUNCH!!!* YOU DON’T LIKE THAT MUCH, DO YOU? DO YOU??!!! Now, go tell all your stinky friends to SHUT THE FUCK UP OR THEY’RE NEXT!!!

After they learn the camp cheer, the kiddies divide into groups and learn group cheers. The groups always practice in the hall outside my door, often leaning on the door as they stumble, screaming, over cheers such as:

Chil’uns: WE ARE TIGERS, HEAR US ROAR!!!! WE ARE TIGERS, HEAR US ROAR!!! WE RUN FAST AND HUNT WILD BOAR!!!
ThePeach: *bangs head on desk, cries, swears*

If I ever accidentally leave the door to my office open, one of the chil’uns will always wander in and stare at me in wonderment. It’s as if they’re shocked that a person exists in this room, as they’ve imagined that an angry, swearing troll lives behind the door.

Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach: Um…hi…are you supposed to be in here?
Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach:…I think you’re in the wrong room.
Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach: You’re supposed to be next door.
Chil’un: *stare*
ThePeach: *stare*
Chil’un: *SCREAMS, RUNS AWAY*
ThePeach: ByeBye!!

Anytime a chil’un misbehaves in the classroom, he is sent into the hallway to have a temper tantrum. This usually occurs directly in front of my door. Have you ever heard a 4-year old have a temper tantrum? It goes a little something like this:

Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor: Shush, now. Shush.
ThePeach: Why, Jesus? Why?
Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor: I’m going to count to 3…
ThePeach: Is it because I’m sleeping with a Jew?
Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor: 1…2….
ThePeach: Because I can stop. I swear, I can. I’ll break up with him right now, on my cell phone, if you’ll only make the screaming stop.
Chil’un: AHHHHHHHEEEEEEEAHHHHHHHEEEEEAHHHHHHEEEEEE!!! *kick*
Counselor:…3…
ThePeach: Look, I’m dialing his number right now.
FauxHawk: Hello?
Chil’un: *sniffle* I want my snack-pack.
ThePeach: *hangs up*. I win again, Jesus! When will you learn not to fuck with me?! SUCKA!
FauxHawk: Hello??

I can’t even go to the bathroom in peace. And I pee a lot at work, due the copious amounts of water I drink to shake off the hangovers I usually have. I have to avoid peak-times, or I’ll be in line behind 50 chil’uns clutching at their wee-wees and pee-pees, jumping from one leg to another, and crying. If I do manage to actually make it into the bathroom, I am always met with the following:

1. No paper towels.
2. No soap.
3. Pee on the floor.
4. Finger-paint on the door handles.

One of the little girls will almost always ask me to help her wash her hands. Another will try to peek at me under the door, giggling in the way that only a 4-year old perv can. One of the bold ones will ask me direct questions about who the hell I am and what I am doing in the ‘bafroom’. Another will want to show me the parachute she made in class that day, then she will cry when it doesn’t work properly. Then a counselor will enter the bathroom and give me a *look*, insinuating that I made the chil’un cry. Then I will run back to the sanctity of my office, drying my wet, soap-less hands on my jeans and vowing never to urinate again. Repeat this scene 2 hours later.

The other day, the chil’uns were being particularly loud and my office-mate and I discussed ways to shut them up.

Office-mate: Ok, I think we should fling open the door, grab one of them by the hair, beat the shit out of it, and throw it back in the hall. I think that should get the message across.
ThePeach: And if they question us, we’ll tell the Counselors that it wandered in here and tripped and fell on its face a bunch of times. And broke its arm.
Office-mate: God, yes.
ThePeach: Or we could pay-off the school-bus driver to drive the bus off a cliff.
Office-mate: GOD, YES!
Camp Counselor: SCIENCE DISCOVERY!!!???
Chil’uns: KIDS REPRESENT!!! WHAT-WHAT!!!
ThePeach/Office-Mate: *tear out hair, weep gently*

They’re screaming as I write this. Ouch, my uterus burns like poison.

*PUNCH-PUNCH!!!*

ThePeach

6 comments:

Billy said...

I never thought I'd see the day when my office feels like Shangri-La.

I think I considered a vasectomy just from reading that.

I am not child-safe...

the hubby said...

That's why I plan on having pets instead of babies. You can give pets mean names and everyone thinks it's cute...now if only I could teach Fat Baby and Sir Chuffrey how to rob banks and clean dishes...hrmmm...

Tuxor said...

There is no such thing as a happy social worker. And now you know why.

Jenna said...

ow...my ovaries...

anonymous coward said...

hey, why doesn't office-mate have a cool name??

OfficeMate said...

I used to think I've got lots of patience with kids...

Heh I'm cool with this name - OfficeMate.