Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Oggy Child Care Center

 The kid’s father said, “You can’t blame the boy for acting like a normal 7 year old kid. Right?”

At that moment the boy was chasing a transvestite in mini skirt and high heels (and actually looking pretty sexy for a 19 year old boy) up the middle of the busy street, barking like a dog, throwing rocks while the transvestite tried to hit him with her purse or handbag and yelled insults at him. Cars honked and dodged the two at high speeds.

The father continued, “He’s learning the best lessons about how to survive on the street.”

 I could barely understand the father because his jaw was locked by the effects of speed and he was mumbling and clutching the pizza cutter, carving aimlessly into a cardboard box.
“I don’t know,” I suggested hesitantly, “I never chased a transvestite into the street when I was his age.”

 “Could you go get him before someone calls the cops?”
“He doesn’t listen to me,” I replied.
“He doesn’t listen to anyone. Just go grab him. Handcuff him if necessary. I gotta watch this pizza.”

I honestly didn’t want to get involved but years on the street has taught me that if I remained in the vicinity then I was going to get involved whether I liked it or not. The only options were to leave immediately or try to intervene, but years on the street had taught me that intervention would never work right. I had my guitar and walked onto the porch of the pizza restaurant with the guitar slung around my back. I called the kid’s name. He only spoke Spanish for some reason to I said, “Ven aca! Ven! No molesta la muchacha!”

 This had absolutely no affect and the transvestite was trying to hit the boy to get him to leave her alone. She was walking back toward the restaurant as the boy darted quickly in and out to punch or pinch the woman’s clothes. It was a totally unacceptable situation and the transvestite was yelling for help. So I chased the kid around as he seemed to think the whole thing was a joke and we were missing out on the fun. I said, “This isn’t a joke. Don’t bother this woman or anyone. Get in the restaurant, Now!”

 The kid laughed at me and tried to run once more at the transvestite and with the guitar in one hand I grabbed the kid by the neck like I would grab a dog, hard, violently, mercilessly. He tried to get away but I got one of his arms behind his back. It was hard with the guitar in my other hand but my instinct was truly violent and he was no match for me. Stray dogs attacked me routinely in Nicaragua and I learned to defend myself with sticks and rocks so my ordinarily diplomatic nature was on vacation; the kid had pushed my limit and I dearly wanted to beat him with a belt or tree branch in the street. I saw him not as a human but as a junk animal who either learned to obey or could find another place to sleep. Children in the farming collectives obeyed the slightest command from their parents, even a imperceptible nod or grunt, and demonstrated the responsiveness of obedient farm animals who had been whipped repeatedly into submission. From the age of 4 until death a Nicaraguan farmer will work as long as hard as humanly possible to survive. The girls take care of the younger children until they have children of their own. The boys start out moving small rocks and graduate into moving buckets, shoveling sand, mixing cement, building rock walls. You work or you die. Parents do not make requests of their children, no, their word is the law. But children are also free to entertain themselves up until the point they are told to do something by an adult, at which point they don’t question the task. Certainly the lack of Disney sponsored media perversion (pester power) is part of the reason rural farming kids are not trained to resist the law and order of their parents, but I am sure the belt or switch is also used. Disobedience is unheard of in rural Nicaragua and now I had crossed into Costa Rica and met the exact opposite scenario, a totally lawless kid and a parent who lacked the motivation and skills to even attempt discipline.

 Normally I find ways to avoid these situations entirely since I have vowed to avoid any child under the age of 18 because I do not want to hinder their permanent corruption by a corrupt culture. I’ve concluded that when a culture becomes as poisoned as the United States has become then your best alternative is to embrace the poison, assimilate the wickedness, augment the awful traditions. Waste food, exploit labor, dominate others, profit, profit, profit at all costs. The world is upside down: A good parent should be ashamed of their child. Do not resist a mass migration to vile ethics and lack of morality; no, that will only lead to struggle and ostracism. Furthermore, it’s pointless because we are talking about institutionalized corruption and degradation. Like Hunter Thompson said, In the land of swine, the one-eyed pig is king. My advice to the young person is to aspire to be that king swine. There are other factors such as the wave of desperate migrants who are about to pour into the United States from Central America, migrants who are more hungry, more willing to work for less, who will do anything to work, and these will be the competition of the average kid growing up today, In addition to the educationally far superior Indian and South Korean migrants so their killer instinct must be refined, not suppressed. Kids today need to conform to the villainous and destructive modern values, learn to oppress all who would seize their wealth, further exploit those weaker than themselves, and show no mercy to anyone. Those are my conclusions and since I want no part of that paradigm and live as an affront to that paradigm, I have voluntarily removed myself from any active contact with youth. I will not lead a rebel army to slaughter. But I will not conform.

 I wish I had some Doctor Phil advice, but he and I run in different circles, so I grabbed the kid away from the transvestite and brought him back to his father who was snorting cocaine in a corner. His mother is apparently a drug addicted slut who houses illegal Nicaraguan immigrants who beat the kid, so he prefers to hang out with his father since that means running down the street with no clothes on chasing transvestites and having strange guitarists wrestle you down and drag your ass across the street. I swear I wanted to beat the living shit out of that kid until he never disobeyed any adult again and I’m pretty sure I would’ve used the line, “I’m doing this for your own good.”

 The conclusion of the story came when the kid tried to get revenge on me by throwing a cup of water at me, barricading himself into a corner of the restaurant and throwing a bunch of crap at me like a padlock and a comb, saying I had assaulted him, which wasn’t a lie. Calmer heads prevailed so I did not beat the living shit out the kid as I so much desired. I dried my guitar off and left him to the fate of his drug addict mother, the abusive Nicaraguan immigrants, and his inept father. The last thing I heard was his father saying, ¨Be a good boy and get your papa two beers from the liquor store.¨and in Costa Rica, that is possible for a 7 year old to get done.

I don’t know if there is a moral to this story except that it explains the look on my face when you ask me to baby sit for your 7 year old kid. A 7 year old Nicaraguan farm kid does not need a babysitter, so if it took you 7 years to create a disobedient little brat then I’m not the right person to call.
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Man in the Van by Oggy Bleacher is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-NonCommercial 3.0 Unported License.