Having a couch is a lot like having a baby; you can lay your briefcase upon
it after a long day of work, sit on it, and snuggle with it while watching a
shitty Discovery Channel program about Fatties and Feeders. You can also
feed the couch baby food and cheerios softened with chef Boyardee reamed from a
plastic cup.

I very much realize that I’m 8-25 Years younger than my coworkers, but its
getting to wear on me exactly how frequently I have to contort my face into a
forced-grimace every time somebody starts talking about how wonderful their 5
year old is and what a happy time they have when baby Lucas rockets a Nerf
football into their groin. Each time little Lucas comes into the office on
account of his newest medical malady, I can’t help but imagine myself
punting the little creature off the 8th floor balcony into a stiff South East
wind and scoring the game winning 3 points – not unlike something out of the
Jack Black/Ferrell exchange in Ron Burgundy.

Again, its not that children themselves bother me – I just can’t tolerate the
constant shifts in focus from Daytime Overdrafts, Coupon Payments, and bitching
at Traders to stories about crying, anecdotes related to proper bedtime feeding,
and why toddlers should have Hennessy rubbed into their gums to help with
teething. I came into this building to work today, and not to talk
toddlers with the new daddies and mommies. If I wanted to do that, I would
have gone to Toys ‘r (backwards) Us and started running pass plays with the kids
in the ACTION FIGURES aisle so that the irate parents would come and tell me not
to play with their children. I was open to the option of pursuing
professional pedophilia a couple years a go – I chose a job pushing buttons on a

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