Rugrat rant
◊
�I have been assured by a very knowing American of my acquaintance in London, that a young healthy child well nursed is at a year old a most delicious, nourishing, and wholesome food, whether stewed, roasted, baked, or boiled ...�
The single most brilliant and hilarious piece of writing I have ever read in my entire life (sorry, David Sedaris; sorry, Owen. OK, not sorry, but at least trying to fake it) is Jonathan Swift's "A Modest Proposal."
It's fucking perfect. Razor sharp, incredibly thorough, and hideously offensive. Nothing, nothing, NOTHING is funnier than discussing the killing of babies, except maybe discussing the killing and eating of babies.
No, I don't like kids. Yes, I know what I'm saying. And no, I don't plan on having any. I have no attention span and no real nurturing skills, and I know it. And no, I would not change my mind if it were my squalling vomit-monster from my worst nightmares that I would be dealing with.
I'm not growing any motherly love, either. I think that the much-praised maternal instinct is a pathetic and dangerous fiction. Men can be good parents. Women can be bad parents.
I would be a legendarily bad parent. I can't even keep a houseplant alive for more than a couple of months. I have no patience and don't like loud, sudden noises. Any kid left in my care would be a twitching, nervous, cringing little spaz within a week and would probably be covered in cigarette burns. Plus I'm a selfish bitch and a total shirker and would never, ever, ever, EVER be able to cope with that level of responsibility.
Anyway. Off to get stuff done. I leave you with these parting words, and hope you will be inspired and affirmed by them:
A child will make two dishes at an entertainment for friends; and when the family dines alone, the fore or hind quarter will make a reasonable dish, and seasoned with a little pepper or salt will be very good boiled on the fourth day, especially in winter.
I tell you, it brings tears to my eyes. I'd marry the guy if he hadn't died in 1745.