hey, i haven’t ranted about unruly brats in a while!

That might be because it seems like children here are slightly better behaved than children in the Bay Area. Possibly because rural Catholics aren’t afraid to beat their children. I JOKE!

But the other day I was in line at Robies, waiting to pay for my Café du Monde coffee with chicory and assorted toiletries. (Moving to southern Louisiana has definitely had its upside.) I looked up from getting my wallet out of my purse to see the spastic child ahead of me vigorously shaking my bottle of mouthwash.

Now, if he had been like, 3 years old, I would have contented myself with removing it from his grasp and moving all my purchases out of his reach. But he was like, 8. That is old enough to know you don’t paw through other people’s stuff on the conveyor belt, especially things that other people are going to drink from. So in my best scary-deep-for-a-woman voice I boomed “THAT IS NOT YOURS. PUT. IT. DOWN. NOW.” I thought he was going to swallow his tongue.

Did his handler (too old to be his mother, probably grandmother) take umbrage; or did she attempt to discipline, however belatedly, her charge? Neither, she was too busy paying for multiple items of junk food — including several bags of Fun Dip — to even notice. Jesus Christ, Fun Dip. Was there ever a candy trying less to masquerade as actual food? It’s a bag of highly-processed, chemically-flavored sugar that you shovel into your mouth with a solid stick of highly-processed, chemically-flavored sugar.

That handsy brat needed that much sugar like I need a pair of functioning ovaries.

However, here is a funny story to balance out the child-hating bitterness of this entry: Last week, as I was leaving Rouses, I passed a family in the parking lot on their way in. And the little boy representing the youngest of the younger generation suddenly blurted out “I’MA BE BALLERINA WHEN I GROW UP.”, then proceeded to do this weird spinning, tippy-toes thing across the remainder of the parking lot. Presumably this was a 7-year-old boy’s interpretation of pirouetting.

His family, of course, immediately went into Pink Panic and simultaneously yelled “BOYS DO NOT BECOME BALLERINAS.”

Don’t listen to them, little Cajun Boy! If you want to be a ballerina, then BY GOD YOU BE A BALLERINA. And boys do too become ballerinas, so there. They’re called ballerinos or danseurs and they’re highly-trained athletes that could kick all your Abita-swilling, fried food-eating asses into next week.

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