A song by Whitney Houston

Friday afternoon I spent forty-seven minutes at Target, shopping for a birthday gift to give to a one year-old who I had never met.

Yes, I was invited to a one year-old’s birthday party, and no, this is not a post about picking up children, women, or Hannah Montana memorabilia.

I like to think of children as just regular people, who just happen to be small and stupid.  So my problem was: what do you get for a regular dude whose entire life has consisted of babbling nonsense and shitting his pants all day?  Lottery tickets?

The truth is, I can’t just treat him like any other illiterate moron.  He’s a baby, right?  Maybe one day he’ll make something of his life.  So with that in mind, I decided to find an educational toy that would both entertain and educate.  Because I believe the children are our future.

In choosing an educational toy, you are really choosing what kind of life lesson you want to impart on this naive and impressionable human being, with his lifetime of limitless potential ahead of himself.  And therein lies the problem.

The first toy to catch my eye was a set of brightly colored blocks.  But what do children REALLY learn from blocks?  Yes, you are the master of your universe: there are an infinite number of possibilities, you can imagine and create, design and construct anything, truly anything that your little heart desires in this life.

But also, that the weight of gravity is a fucking bitch.  The truth is, you have no small motor skills.  Your chubby little fingers can barely grasp a spoonful of crushed carrots, let alone the building blocks of your own future.  Your imagination is void and uninspired.  You’ll be lucky if you manage to stack two blocks on top of each other before mistaking them for chew toys.  And you don’t even have teeth.  Much like all of your stupid baby dreams, your blocks will eventually come tumbling down and leave you with nothing more than a mess of made-in-China plastic garbage.

So I didn’t get him blocks.

I browsed through the DVDs.  I saw a movie called Baby Geniuses on sale for $4.99.  It was about a bunch of super-intelligent, talking babies who outsmart a group of scientists in an absurd mix-up of identical twins.  Ironically though, anyone who dishes out five bucks for this abomination of a film is NOT a Baby Genius, but rather the EXACT opposite: an Adult Retard.

Let me be clear: The R-word can be hateful and I shouldn’t have used it, and I mean no disrespect to any individual who has suffered through a debilitating learning disability.  I do NOT intend to reinforce negative stereotypes about this already-stigmatized group.

Because I love ‘tards.

But I didn’t get the movie.

Instead, I finally decided on this toy helicopter:

But let me be clear: despite its packaging, the educational potential of this toy is mind bogglingly abysmal.  What are we teaching kids about helicopters, other than the fact that they sing songs to you about balloons, birds, and bullshit?  Oh I know: that aerodynamics don’t mean SHIT in your world, because as you’re about to learn, you short and stupid human being, HELICOPTERS CAN’T EVEN FLY.   That’s right, the rotors don’t spin, and it only moves when pulled by a long white leash attached to the front.  Is that how helicopters are supposed to work?  As far as you know, you inept midget.

If I were running down the jetway at the airport, got to the helipad, and saw this abomination on the landing pad, I would wonder if a sheet of acid melted through my shirt pocket, into my bloodstream, and through my central nervous system.

Why the fuck is there a pastel alphabet printed all over the chopper?

Is my helicopter really singing to me?

Does this helicopter have… a face?  And why is it smiling?  WHY IS IT SMILING?

Who’s the pilot on this thing?  Surely, some kind of trained professional who has logged at least 2000 hours of flight time, ensuring the safety of both the passengers and the general public?  Oh, what’s that you say?  Our pilot is a… puppy?

A PUPPY.

After 47 minutes at Target, I bought the toy helicopter.  That was enough for me, because this little blob of a human being has never contributed to society and doesn’t speak a lick of English — if we were in Arizona, that would be enough to get him deported.  He didn’t get me shit for my last birthday, so the least I can do is spoil his hopes and dreams, poison his mind and imagination, and miseducate him about the sheer physics of air travel and transportation.

Because at that point, I not only gave up on finding a good toy for the kid, but I also gave up on my faith in the next generation of humanity.

I sure hope Whitney Houston was wrong.  Because if the children ARE our future, well, we’re all fucked.