Teaching Kids Proper Use of the Death Scream

I’m not a parent yet, but I’m pretty sure that I’m going to fare better than most people when it comes to not screwing up my future offspring. This prediction stems from the fact that I’ve seen tons of douche bags make parenting look hard, and that’s usually a clear sign that an activity is actually fairly straightforward (ex: dating, pet ownership, driving). Once I get over my irrational fear of babies dropping babies, I’m confident that I’ll be a parenting prodigy.

So, take it from the World’s #1 Dad™: it’s important to teach your young children the difference between the “A stranger is murdering me!” scream and the “I’m a stupid kid who likes to make noise!1!!1″ scream. In decades past the sound of a child screaming at the top of his or her lungs would compel most adults to investigate and render assistance. Nowadays, however, the sound of a child screaming in abject terror is likely just a sign that some idiot 5 year old is having fun. Consequentially (and as tends to be the case with many things in life), the morons have ruined the usefulness of the emergency scream for the rest of society.

Let me be clear: I’m not talking about children squealing. As obnoxious as it is, I realize that squeals and loud yelling are par for the course with young kids. I’m talking about the type of scream that instinctively puts human senses on high alert, the type of scream that 30,000 years ago would have indicated that a tiger was in the process of eating the toddler in the hut across the way.

In the path of an oncoming semi: good time to scream.

Coach killed by possessed vending machine: good time to scream.

It has reached the point where if I’m walking down the street and hear a child’s blood-curdling cries for help nearby, they’ll be lucky if I even turn my head. For all I know there are children just being raped and murdered around me left and right on a regular basis, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to run to the “scene of the crime” even one more time just to encounter some little girl enjoying her tire swing. Just recently I actually heard a kid desperately screaming something to the effect of “HELP!! HELP ME!!! STOP!!!”, which made me break with my usual policy of indifference and pop my head outside to see what was up. Much to my disappointment, the boy was not in fact being abducted; his shitty parents just neglected to teach him the subtle differences between the perils of Stranger Danger and the displeasure of having your older brother shoot you with a Super Soaker.

If your kid is a screamer then you need to correct that shit pronto. Ground them, beat them, emotionally abuse them – whatever it takes to drive the message home. You’ll be a better parent for it, and by the time your grandchildren are born they might actually have the chance to live in a world where legitimate cries for help aren’t inadvertently ignored.


Cheese Graters Suck

I think that I’ve always been afraid of  cheese graters. Frankly, any rational person should be. A cheese grater’s potential for inflicting fucked up amounts of damage to human flesh far outweighs its utility in the kitchen.

Granted, I’ll be the first to admit that I’m probably missing something when it comes to cheese grater technique. Taking a new block of cheddar and shredding it with a grater is pretty straightforward, but when I get down to the last quarter of the block, shit gets a little too real. Every downward swipe becomes exponentially more frightening, yet I feel compelled to keep at it due to the voice in my head telling me that I shouldn’t waste a perfectly good ounce of cheese. Swap the voice in my head with that of Tobin Bell and you’ve got yourself a scene right out of a Saw film.

“The key to your shackles is hidden inside that block of cheese.”

Needless to say I now purchase my cheese pre-shredded. It’s well worth the inflated price so that I can sleep at night without having nightmares about losing chunks of my finger tips the next time that I want tacos for dinner. That rule also applies to anything else that one could imagine using a cheese grater for, because no matter what I do  it always turns into some kind of shit show. I tried making hash browns from scratch the other day by grating whole potatoes, but by the time I finished the job the potato shreds had turned purple. Purple.

It occurs to me that if I ever find myself in captivity being tortured for information by some nefarious government, they’re likely going to Google this blog post and whip out the grater. It goes without saying that I’ll sing like a bird, so anyone thinking about sharing the nuclear launch codes with me should consider themselves warned. On the bright side, there would be little need for cheese graters after a nuclear holocaust.