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I fully and unabashedly admit that I detest this office tradition with the same red-faced passion that I detest One Direction, mushrooms, and the University of Louisville. Remember in kindergarten when show-and-tell meant bringing your new or favorite Matchbox car, Barbie Doll, or Ninja Turtles toy to school and gloating when all the other kids drooled over how lucky you were to own such an awesome piece of Chinese-made plastic?
These days, the toys people are showing aren’t nearly as collectible as Matchbox cars, as attractive as Barbies, and neither do they have the sheer badassery of the original Ninja Turtles. No no. Today’s trend is for employees in their late 20s (a demographic into which I regrettably fall) or early 30s to parade their drooling and babbling offspring around the office for 30 minutes at a time, just so all the women, both early 20-somethings and Cougars alike, can ooh and ahh over “How cute he is!” and “She’s getting so big!” and “Look at all that hair!” Pardon me while I excuse myself to projectile vomit all over the men’s room.
I probably ought to throw in the disclaimer here that I have absolutely nothing against children. I was a camp counselor for a number of years, and held a variety of leadership positions educating fellow youth both in college and before college. Do I want kids of my own? No, but I would certainly like to work with kids in an advisory position sometime in the future.
The issue I have in this situation is this: I’ve mentioned in the past that the majority of my coworkers suffer from a chronic medical condition known as “shit for brains.” Regrettably, disturbingly high numbers of the coworkers with this crippling condition insist on reproducing. Sometimes it really make me wish the government would re-instate the Compulsory Sterilization program from the ’60s.
Despite my desire to institute a nationwide, mandatory IQ test prior to permitting people to multiply, there is nothing I can do except shake my head. About the only thing I can do is put out a desperate heartfelt plea to my fellow postgrads: remember that your future kids will be competing against the Honey Boo Boo generation, who were birthed by the Real World, Buckwild, and Duck Dynasty generation. And they’re going to have the Real Housewives of God-knows-where as grandparents. Are you frightened yet? Because you sure as hell should be, and that’s without going into the financial ramifications that ensue from having kids.
Maybe you’re up for the challenge, and if so, my hat is sincerely off to you. If you’re still on the fence, think long and hard because as fucked up as our generation may be with things like ADHD, unemployment, soul-sucking student loan debt, and daddy issues, it’s only going to get worse and we all know it.
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Spaceman Spiff
Now a graduate with a few years of business "experience", Spiff didn't exactly turn into the interplanetary explorer extraordinaire he had hoped to become. Instead, he spends his days as a cynical desk jockey, moonlighting as a Contributing Writer for PGP and marching ever closer to the big 3-0, which has only fueled his transition from quarter-life crisis straight into thrisis.
