Kidnipping

Immediately following the rank of loud Koreans, pesky kids never fail to bring out my inner Hannibal Lecter.

Let me clarify early on this tirade that I’m neither a xenophobe, nor a bigot or a racist but I happen to live in a building partially colonized by a few infuriating Koreans. Anyone who has the same misfortune would double over in sympathetic nods when I say some, not all, of our Kim Jong II brothers would effortlessly trigger human extinction just by having a conversation inside the elevator. At minimum splintered eardrums is to be estimated. They rush in the lift and in two seconds flat launch into a screaming competition in decibels equivalent to a nuclear warhead detonation. The thing is they are three millimeters apart from each other and given the compact density of an elevator carriage their yelling conversations would ricochet like shrill Frisbees made of industrial grade Gillettes.

But Koreans are not my main beef today. It’s kids.

I love kids. And brush off those smug pedophiliac and pederastic thoughts off your polluted mind. I love kids because they are cute bundles of plutonium pellets waiting to explode. I have four nieces and three nephews and I spoil them to bits. Their respective parents would yell their pleura out when reprimanding them and they would cheerfully ignore parental guidance. I’d glance at them and they stand still. Else a payday quota of a gallon of cookies and cream flavored ice cream would be forfeited.

Kids, despite their adorable nature are small rotten meanies. I am not talking Dennis The Menace or Calvin (Calvin & Hobbes) here. I mean real life miniature brats inhabiting our building. At least one half of them are bonafide infanticide bait.

They scream in elevators, press ALL the buttons rendering the lift practically at standstill when it stops on EVERY floor.

They kick your shins and spit on your newly dry-cleaned suit.

They form inter-floor Olympic tournaments and shriek their lungs out while doing mad relay in hallways and stairwells on a Saturday morning when all you want is to pass out under the sheets.

They aspire to be the next Pollock, Giotto, Rubens, Rothko, Frankenthaler and Miro by making your door their canvass using crayons, keys or bottle caps.

I was describing this litany of irritation to a friend over lunch sometime ago when a two year old brat began shrieking and rolling on the restaurant floor. The parents look at each other accusingly, assigning blame and probably now thinking about the virtues of using condoms. The nanny tries to pry the screeching and flailing tyke off the floor to no avail.

We happen to be dining next to the whole ruckus.

I look at my friend and he shakes his head.

“Over here!” I said to the kid, pointing at a dusty spot next to us. “The vacuum missed the spot here! And There! Roll over there! Keep it clean!”

The kid stopped, stood up and sheepishly hid behind the relieved mom.

“You are wicked.” My friend laughed.

“Or an effective toddler psychologist.” I retorted.

It’s a relief that I am not. I’d probably raise a generation of fucked up kids.