I Don't Care Where, Just Far...

If I ever have kids, I'm not going to raise them in this country.

At least, not during their formative years. No Sir-ee.

There's a kindergarten a few doors down from where I live. It's a bright, colourful little house at the neck of our cul-de-sac, a spasmodic proliferation of purple, yellow, green and blue, an approximation of diarrhoea in full Nickalodean glory.

The kids sit out front, in neat little rows, in their beige shirts and little red shorts, unwittingly joining the ranks of collectivistic consciousness. A pudgy Drill Sergeant (Oh and she looks pretty butch to me) barks out orders at her cowering co-dependents:

"Why y'all never put all your bags properly?"

"No talking! You never pay 'tention, ah?"

"Stop crying, your mother gone already!"

(HEY TURKEY, WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING TEACHING AT A KINDERGARTEN IF YOU CAN'T FUCKING TALK RIGHT?)

Those poor little kids.

The yelling goes on all morning. Stray out of your invisible Dilbert cubicle and the bitch starts honking. Take too long to respond and the bitch starts honking. Stupid bitch.

Being kids, they don't seem to mind. They get used to it. Of course, it won't stop little Jennifer from growing up into a child-beating crackwhore later on in her life, but they get used to it.

The bell rings with military precision. Out into the yard, back inside after 10 minutes. Don't eat the crayons, don't smudge your shorts. Oh there's Mommy, let's all put on a big smile and wave.

"Now, all sing Negaraku!"

It's quite depressing, really.

Those poor parents.

They send their kids to pre-school Auschwitz everyday and pick them up in time for lunch.