Did you ever watch kids with a pinata? It’s pretty interesting. You can tell a lot about a kid by the way they handle a pinata and the ensuing explosion of candy. Some kids will take that bat and despite being spun silly, will swing wildly in every direction trying to connect with something.
They want not just to get the candy but to be the hero that will be talked about for tens of birthday parties to come. “See her, right there? That’s Maddie. You know, Maddie, the one who beat the hell out of that poor Dora the Explorer last year? Every party we’ve been to since, I don’t even bother to have my Jacob line up if there’s a pinata. I don’t want him to look stupid and if someone else will do all the work, what do I care as long as he gets the candy? I just position him so a good chunk of the trajectory of candy will fly in his direction. He’s got asthma, you know, so I don’t want him to over exert.”
There are the kids who are calculating. They try to get their bearings before swinging. They plan, they measure, they adjust. They are smart about trial and error and listening to the voices of the observers whether they indicate “Ohhh,” meaning how close or laughing because the attacker is chopping at someone’s grandma who just came out of the ladies room.
Then there are the cheaters. There are always those bottom-feeders.
You can tell what type of a person the kid is going to become by the way he approaches a pinata.
And the parents. That’s probably the most telling element of all. Some of the fathers are clearly pinata engineers and give their kids all of this advice on height and swing angle and others are dropping a shoulder and scrambling on the floor to make sure their little oompa loompas get their fair share. Or maybe not so fair. I mean if you’re sitting in a chair crying about how no one let you have any and you saw that tootsie roll first and now it’s squashed flat…..Stop being such a pussy.
This isn’t how life works, kid. It’s just like education. It’s hanging right in front of you but you actually have to work to get it. Dora is not going to female ejaculate her Smarties of knowledge and Blow Pops of skills all over you as you stand there diddling yourself. And your parents can scrabble around like crabs but how humiliating is that? You’re such an infant that your parents want you spoon fed that which everyone else is learning to acquire on their own.
So please, Dakota, have your mother write me another email, and be sure she copies it to the principal, about how I didn’t respond to her last email. Have her mention how upsetting it was that I instead spoke to you about where you thought you needed help. Crazy talk, I know. It’s important that she continue to ask me the same questions over and over again and pretend I haven’t answered them, patiently, every single fucking time. I understand how it’s a mystery to everyone in the family about how to construct an intelligent paragraph. After all, I’ve been the recipient of these rambling epistles via email.
Of course I will act surprised when she shows up tomorrow for a conference I didn’t agree to so we can all just shake our heads in frustration about what a dilemma this is, just to get you to learn. I mean for Christ’s sake, she’s done everything for you including suck you off. This she admits proudly.
If nothing else, please understand that the less you do, the more I am supposed to do.