I am not a people person. I am not a child person. For me, the logic in having children totally escaped me, and it still does. I do know people whose lives are magical and joyful because they have kids, but I also know people whose lives are magical and joyful because they do LSD. I don’t do LSD either, by the way, and for those of us who do neither children nor hallucinogens, I would like to have a word with those of you who do.
If you are going to do strong drugs that make you scream or weep or reasonably demand things in your loudest voice, then perhaps LSD isn’t a drug you are much suited for, and you should stick to Sangria or perhaps you should smoke pot. If you have trouble controlling your bodily functions or your ability to discern when you are annoying other people when you’re stoned out of your mind, perhaps you should have stayed at home and not gone to a restaurant after all.
Now, for those of you with children.
Oh, you saw it coming a mile away, didn’t you? What? Really? How can that be?
The reality of the situation is in my lifetime I can count on my thumbs how many times stoned people have done anything at a restaurant that wasn’t at least mildly amusing, but not socially unacceptable. A guy I knew was tripping fell over laughing and couldn’t stop, but that was during Spring Break, in Panama City Beach, and it was the 70’s.
Now, let’s review the activity of the two groups of people involved here:
Since the 70’s, how many times in a restaurant has a child begun to cry or scream and not stopped until there was at least one person in the building ready to pony up enough money for a vasectomy right there on the spot, with a butter knife and a shot of tequila as emergency ER tools?
I went out with a friend for lunch today and they had to put an infant in a wooden stool with a seat on it in the middle of the aisle. For course, the child began some high pitch wailing and would not stop. Because of the chair placement we had to either push the child towards the table, and towards its rightful parents, we assumed, or we had to walk all the way around the restaurant to the other door, cut across the parking lot, and finally make good our escape.
There was no hope of enjoying a meal with someone who was short on years but long on tears.
I blame the parents. If your kid is kicking up that kind of fuss in public then get the hell out. Take the kid to the car, take the kid to an adoption agency, take the kid to Afghanistan and the terrorists will run fleeing from that place.
I rather sit next to a table where someone is looking at his hand and all zoned out than next to a six month old whose voice is pushing people to leave the building rather than sit through another long wail.
Mike writes regularly at his site: The Hickory Head Hermit
Opinions expressed in this article are not necessarily those of the management of this site.