After editing this post several times, I still hate it. It's far too long and not nearly as funny as I initially thought. Against my better judgement, I won't delete it.
I finally finished the children's book that I was writing. After I breathed multiple sighs of relief and satisfaction, I suddenly decided that I want to add a few more things to it. So, my writing continues.....
What's the title of the book, Jon?
I'm not at liberty to reveal that. Besides, I haven't yet come up with a title.
It's no secret that you hate children, Jon. So why write a book for them?
A clarification is in order. I don't exactly hate children. I intensely dislike them.
This is a new and exciting genre for me. It tests my limits and challenges what's left of my mind. Besides, I was surprised to discover that writing for kids is a lot of fun.
Which just goes to show how desperately boring and unfulfilling my pathetic life has become.
So, tell us what the book is about?
The book is a delicious collection of scary poems that encompass the mystery, danger, and perils of the night.
Yea, it's a word. Spellcheck assured me.
Do you think scary poems will be suitable for young readers, Jonathan?
Here's a flash, Kemo Sabe:
kids don't scare easily nowadays. Gone is the sanitized era of Leave It to Beaver and Mouseketeers. Today's little buckaroos have iPads when they're three, cell phones when they're six, and raw sex when they're ten.
My intention is to instill some good old-fashioned imagination into them. And hopefully scare the jeeters out of the little boogers.
End of imaginary interview.
I'm actually already almost considering a second book. Even more morbid than the first. In truth, I'm still a child at heart - which, in itself is a rather frightening thought.
Anyone who loves kids will probably change their mind after a trip to Walmart. Ear-piercing juvenile screams penetrate every corner of the store, completely ignored by the accompanying parents. Are these parents simply so used to the screams that they've become immuned to them? Or do they sadistically enjoy sharing their misery with others?
I'm in Walmart, standing in the 20 Item or Less checkout line. The woman ahead of me has at least three hundred items in her shopping cart. I didn't see it at first because her ample ass was blocking the view.
Actually her ass is beyond ample.
Let me put it this way: half a dozen Cub Scouts could easily jump on the back of her ass and hitch a ride home and she'd never know it.
The woman is not only ample. She's also dirty. The sweat shirt she's wearing looks like it hasn't been washed since Peter, Paul, and Mary were singing Blowin' in the Wind.
As she mambos her way through the two-foot-wide aisle, I notice that - -besides the 300 items - - there's a child sitting in the shopping cart.
The grimy, chocolate-covered kid is sucking on a rapidly melting Hershey Bar, while greenish shades of snot dribble from his nose into the chocolate.
And he's staring at me.
That's one of the unnerving things about kids and cats: when they stare you never know what the hell they're thinking.
Most unnerving of all is that the kid doesn't blink. I've been standing in this frickin' line for twenty minutes and the kid has been staring at me totally blinkless all the while.
He's like a Stepford kid or maybe a Children of the Corn offspring.
I'm beginning to feel a little uncomfortable and my emotions get the better of me.
Is there something wrong with the way I look?
Naw. An impossibility.
Does he think I resemble his father? Or grandfather? (heck, he's probably never seen his father).
My thoughts start screaming in my head.
What's the matter, you miniature booger despenser - - Haven't you ever seen an aging faux cowboy before?
And while you're at it, get Mambo Mama to wipe your nose.
Then it hits me: I realize it's probably my cowboy hat. A left-over token from Texas. You don't see many cowboy hats here in the Tennessee boonies.
The kid thinks I'm a cool hombre.
Heartwarming incidents like this always inspire me to write for children.
But why the heck doesn't he ever blink??