Some People's Children...

...are unbelievably retarded.

There is no other word for it, and I don't care how many people get offended when I use it. It's the only word that truly fits. There must be something in the air or water here on Staten Island which must be responsible for inflicting a series of horrendous birth defects in the children of a certain class of person.


And you people know who you are, too. But since you're probably clueless about just how fucked up you are -- after all, you've produced retarded children and haven't apparently gotten them the help they need -- I'll identify you here. Besides, it might be entertaining for us normal people who have to suffer you.

You're probably of Irish or Italian descent (you know the difference between a Goombah and an Italian? An Italian can spell his name. The difference between Shanty Irish and Lace Irish? The Lace Irish at least take the dishes out before peeing in the sink). You have a "city job" or work in a trade that requires you to be a member of a union. This means that you are probably grossly overpaid, and that you need never have to worry about displaying either talent or intelligence.

You probably only managed to graduate high school by threatening the geometry teacher at gun- or knife-point into giving you that last 'Gentleman's D'. Otherwise, your academic record would leave much to be desired, although you did ace both Gym and Lunch for all 12 years, and managed to get a gold star in Tying Your Shoes in kindergarten. This is the extent of your academic achievements. However, since you only needed to pass a civil service exam written for 2nd-grade reading level, with very little math that left you with enough fingers and toes left over, it doesn't really matter.

You married the Neighborhood Whore-Beauty Queen of your Dreams, Connie Marie Slammabagga or Mary Margaret Elizabeth McSuckpuppy; you know, the girl voted Most Likely to Give It Up for a Burger and a Double Feature, and who would do things the Other Girls Wouldn't. You had a wedding that had all the pomp and circumstance that one would expect to find in the typical Guido Football Wedding, complete with rented tuxedos... and sandwiches. It was the kind of affair where people got drunk before they arrived, probably because your parents -- Giancarlo Antonio the Stonemason, and Sean Liam Patrick the Garbageman -- wouldn't spring for a free bar; the Italian because it's a sin (that's simply an excuse for being a cheap bastard) and the Irishman because if anyone's getting free booze it had damned-well better be him and him alone.

You quickly bought -- with an overtextended line of credit or a government-guarateed subprime mortgage -- the semi-detached, cardboard, cookie-cutter McMansion of your dreams, complete with a grandiose kitchen that your wife will never use and a breakfast nook (all the better homes on HGTV have breakfast nooks, you know) in what was once an industrial area of Staten Island, and which will probably be declared a toxic waste dump about three-quarters of the way through your mortgage. That's because you bought a "new" house, and didn't want one that someone else had lived in before, because your wife, who will normally swallow ejaculate without much fuss, finds the idea of a "used" house "gross". Or maybe because Mrs. Asswipe was allowed to indulge her unfettered nesting instinct and redecorate the place exactly the way that Doctor Nolfi woman did in Goodfellas. It's easier than having to argue with her.

Besides, it was only another $60k on the mortgage for that replica rock wall.

Anyway, you eventually spawned offspring because after getting married and overpaying for a shitpile on a small lot with exorbitant taxes you just couldn't figure out what else to do on a Saturday Night. You've now given birth to little Seamus Vito Kevin Pasquale McDouchebag-Stugots, and the rest of the world should have to suffer for it.

For the little bugger has been dealt a cruel hand by fate; because his parents were low-class, low-intelligence, low-brow sorts, they will, naturally, raise a little animal with similar characteristics. They (his parents) will be cursed with The Affliction -- a condition common in Staten Island Parents in which they simultaneously recognize and don't recognize that their little bastard is severely brain damaged, that it's their own fucking fault, and they accordingly go into a deep denial.

The first stage of that denial is to make excuses for their diseased offspring from his earliest days. When the little tyke keeps falling out of chairs or bumping into/bouncing off stationary objects at high speed -- objects that anyone with decent vision can see from a distance of at least 50' -- and landing upon his head, they make the excuse that he's just a clumsy toddler. The fact that they pay absolutely no attention to him -- unless he does something 'cute' -- will never be admitted to. Their child is not a precious life to be safeguarded and nurtured, he's a fashion accessory or status symbol, a trophy, if you will, and that's how they see him.

When he finally progresses to jumping out of wet bathtubs with a towel wrapped around both his neck and the towel rack simultaneously, or trying to slide down stairs on his belly head-first with a mouthful of Lego bricks, or eating the roaches out of Mommy's Special Don't-Touch Box Under the Sink, it's considered just a kid being a kid, and not a sign that the little rugrat may be a genetic misfire who needs help. When he begins to lick the wall outlets because no one is watching him, it's just considered 'curiosity' (after all, Mommy has to Facebook, spend at least 4 hours a day on the phone, watch General Hospital, and make sure the housekeeper isn't stealing that fine collection of commemorative Elvis plates that are an important part of the retirement plan).

Now it's one thing when you have a child who, through no fault of his own, is damaged goods. I want to make it clear that I'm not trying to lump in neglected children with the truly sick ones. It's just that some parents, rather than take responsibility for their little bundle of joy, would instead like to believe that their child is simply suffering from something that they didn't give them....unless, of course, you mean guidance. That's how an entire legal industry sprang up to sue doctors for "giving" children Cerebral Palsy, you know.

Some mothers and fathers are so desperate to avoid having to take responsibility for having produced what amounts to a genetic potato salad that they will, almost gleefully and eagerly claim that their child isn't really stupid...but special...even going as far as to proclaim their children as autistic or whatever, sans evidence, and trying like hell to get them into every 'special' school or suck up whatever charitable or taxpayer-funded goodies there are. I know many parents who have decided their child is autistic because she didn't learn French by age four, despite Mommy having spent a huge sum on those DVD's.

The absolute worst example I can think of is the family who had their child put into special ed because he couldn't catch a football at three years of age. Since he could not perform this physical task at an early enough age to suit Mommy and Daddy, he was tagged a retard and treated that way for the majority of his young life. They just shopped around until they found a doctor willing to say something other than "He's fucking three, and not supposed to be as co-ordinated as Jerry Rice. Let him grow the fuck up, already, you dipshit!'. When you believe enough, and you spread enough money around, you eventually get a doctor to fulfill your wish who writes on an insurance form "This child is developmentally challenged, and this family deserves some sort of benefit out of proportion to what they've paid for it". It's a self-fulfilling prophecy.

Some sickening examples of these parents will actually wear the fact that their child has been tagged as "Special Needs" like a badge of courage, and stick it in people's faces at every opportunity. It gives them special advantages in society: they get to the front of every line, they get to pretend to be morally superior to the rest of us, and they get people to bend over backwards to shower them with free shit, sympathy, and money.

I guess it's easier to abuse your children this way than to actually raise them. They use their children as a weapon. I'd bet that in 95% of the cases, there was absolutely nothing wrong with that child before Mom and Dad started convincing themselves that there was, and then just found a doctor who agreed with them just to get them out of his office.

But, back to the supposedly "normal" ones...

Eventually, the the little tyke gets big enough to go to school, which most of you consider to be some sort of free babysitting service that allows you all the time in the world to go hang out all day at Starbucks. In public school, it soon becomes apparent to even his teacher -- herself little more than a licensed moron with a union card -- that your child is dumber than a fucking stump. How does she know? Because shes an idiot, too, and it takes one to know one. In fact, she's convinced that your son just might be the biggest idiot she's ever seen. She passes him onto the next grade, if only to spare herself the torment of having to watch him pick his nose, drool all over himself, and wet his pants for another year, and because if she did the right thing and suggested he be put in Special Ed -- or euthanized -- someone might wonder what was wrong with her; she's made a judgement, and suggested something responsible, and she can get kicked out of the union for that.

So, your dumb-as-dogshit little waste of gametes gets passed from grade-to-grade, barely able to tie his own shoes, or spell his own name. Because you're in denial about his frightening level of stupidity and social degeneracy, you pretend that everything is just fine. After all, it's not like The Cops are on your doorstep every night complaining about Giovanni O'Shaughnessy, the Walking, Talking, Butthole. Eventually, your little bundle of waste DNA gets old enough to go to High School, and it is here that the true depths of his difficulties and inadequacies is made clear...often in public.

Because YOUR son is apparently the one who cannot help but yell "FUCK!" at the top of his lungs on a crowded bus. Repetitively. Nothing else, mind you -- just that one, solitary word. Over, and over, and over. And because he's an adolescent, he does it in That Voice the one that is simultaneously booming and cracking, a mixture of alternating Basso-profundo and Mezzo-soprano. He just repeats the word every few seconds...

Fuck!

Fuck!

Fuck!

Of course, the other brain-damaged little suckholes around him find this uproariously funny. They too are of similar backgrounds; they are the offspring of the Third-generation-Imitation-Greaseballs, and the Six-pack-and-a-potato-Shanty Irish, dropped repeatedly on their heads by inattentive and truly stupid parents, shuffled off to school so that they were out of sight and mind, and passed from grade-to-grade by a unionized assembly line process that has nothing to do with education. Only now they have raging hormones to contend with, too.

It's like watching a gang of over-excited baboons; they're all yelling obscenities, always over one another, sometimes in unison, jumping around, swinging from the handrails, pushing and shoving one another, throwing fists at one another in mock fights, all at the same time. It's a maelstrom of stupidity and anarchy that reminds one of a pack of jackals feasting upon a rotting gazelle carcasse. All of them the same sort of doofus, in groups of seven, eight, ten of them, who knows; you'll find a similar pack of animals everywhere on this island -- the buses, the trains, the Mall, a street corner -- and in just a few years, they'll get driver's licenses because that, too, is an activity that keeps them out of Mom and Dad's hair for hours at a time.

This desire to scream "Fuck!" every seven or eight seconds is not some strange form of Tourette's Syndrome, it's indicative of a child with no class, no brains, and no sense of how to behave in public, set loose to be a dumbass. It's the sign that someone was raised without anyone ever telling him where the boundaries of acceptable behavior were, and what they might be. It's the sign of someone too dumb for this cash-strapped society to continue to waste money on in a public school. Normally, I would have gotten up from my seat on that crowded bus, pushed my way to the back to get into the little fuckhead's face, and tell him to knock it off before I knocked him out. But I'm getting sick and tired of imposing some form of discipline upon other people's kids. It's becoming a full-time job in these parts.

If it were possible for me to show up on Luigi O'Dickhead's front doorstep to report his outrageous behavior to his...I hesitate to call them 'parents'; 'gamete donors' is perhaps more accurate...I can personally guarantee that not only will I not be believed when I regale the guinea-tee-wearing-tattooed doofus (and really, you'd think a lady might dress better?) who answers the door with the story of his/her son's stupidity, but I will also hear all of the following:

"Not my kid...my kid wuz raised right...now gedda fuck off my stoop, Acehole..."

"Not my Vinny, he's an Angel....you gotta problem wid him, or what?"

"Boys will be boys...now mind your own fuckin' business...."

"Ain't you got nuddin' beddah ta do? Why you pickin' on my son? You wanna fight?"

"You got da wrong kid...my kid don't talk dat way. Fuck off, Douchebag before I fuckin' kick your fuckin' ass, you fuckin' fuck...."

Now you know why the Jersey Shore is still on television. These are the people watching it religiously.

Now the sons are bad enough, what with their penchant for screaming obscenities and obnoxious behavior, but the even sadder fact of the matter is that the girls are far worse. I can count upon the male scion of The Middle Class With No Class to do something stupid and dangerous; it's simply Nature at work, identifying the mentally-weakest members of the herd, and hopefully, knocking them off before they reproduce. But I can almost guarantee that on any given day, that some girl, somewhere on this island, is doing something absolutely off the charts stupid.

Like the 19-year-old girl of my acquaintance who, just last year, was arrested for pushing oxycodone (known in these parts as Staten Island Crack). Alexis -- not her real name, but it might as well be; half the teenaged girls on this island are named Alexis or Mercedes or some exotic monicker which doesn't exactly harmonize with "Martucci" or "O'Connor", but who gives a shit? Mom picked that Stripper's Name because she saw it in People or on Maury Povich, and she thought it was pretty. Hence, you get the spectre of an Alexandria Stefania McCormick-Mastrantonio (all the low-grade-ore brides in these parts insist on keeping their names hyphenated because (insert name of 2nd-rate-celebrity here) does), but I digress.

"Alexis" was given everything. She was the Apple of Daddy's Eye, the Princess of All the Balls. Dancing lessons (despite the fact that she displayed all the grace of a three-legged hippo), the finest clothes, the Barbie-Dream-House-Bedroom, the Best Catholic-School-Education that Money Could Buy, the new car that arrived just as soon as she got her driver's license. No one ever said a bad word about Alexis in her own home, no one ever corrected her because she was perfect, no one ever gave her as much as a cross look. There was literally nothing that she would not be given if she simply asked for it -- more often, whined for it -- and neither of her parents would ever show her much in the way of discipline. She was never spanked and never sent to her room without Jell-O. Instead, when Alexis acted out, she'd get Time Outs and the predictable load of psychobabble claptrap that now passes for childrearing.

By the age of 17, Alexis had already racked up three arrests. She was known to the police, and so was her little gang of similarly-raised-near-baboon reprobates.

Eventually, Alexis expanded her little network of wanna-be-gangsta doofuses, and began hanging around with the 'wrong' crowd. However, it was not so much the crowd that was wrong, as much as it might have been Alexis herself. She became, allegedly, the ringleader of a little drug-running operation that had even the Mob green with envy. Her parents, still in denial, point to this incident and will tell you, almost dreamily, that this proves that she could have been anything she wanted to be. It's almost as if they're proud in some backhanded way!

Since Alexis had gotten lenient treatment the first three times around because she was a) underage, and b) had clueless parents who had vouched for her in front of a judge. believing against all evidence that their daughter was still a Little Angel, she's learned all the wrong lessons. They've begged, in fact, to have their daughter sent home to be "straightened out", and the judge has always obliged them.

Alexis was eventually arrested after leading the police on a high-speed chase that saw her ram another car. When the cops finally caught up to her, she was carrying two known felonious passengers (one wanted in connection with an attempted murder, and was also her boyfriend!), and a loaded 9 mm pistol in her glovebox. The cops also found a loaded .380 pistol in her purse...along with 200 oxycodone pills, and a stash of stolen prescription pads.

Now, I don't mean to imply that because some of the children of this particular socio-economic class are complete animals, in some cases criminals, that all of them are. Actually, I would put the number at something like 85% of the offspring of this extremely annoying class of people to be potential criminals, if not outright proof that Darwin was right. These kids are demonstrably stupid. They are often violent. They have way too much free time on their hands, nothing to do, and worse, are indulged beyond belief by parents who would rather mollycoddle them than make an effort to raise them properly. If you should doubt this, I challenge you to stand outside of a Staten Island Public High School at 3 P.M. and just watch what comes out of it.

I shudder when I think about the future. When you're like me, 44 years of age, and you stop to consider your peril -- our parents' generation, the Baby Boomers, will soon be sucking the lifeblood from our very veins, and the next generation of kids who sell oxycodone and yell "Fuck!" for no reason at the top of their lungs are the ones we'll need to depend upon to run the country -- you foresee terrible trouble that appears unavoidable, and which spells the end of our Constitutional Republic.

People like me are simply bracketed by the stupidity of others; the Woodstock Generation which believes it once "spoke truth to power" and stopped a war (it did neither. It only succeeded in destroying the confidence upon which a civil republic is built), and the sheer, demonstrable unsuitability for breeding of the current grade of teenagers. It's unfortunate that we're not allowed to shoot the truly stupid on sight: we can only hope that they will breed successively dumber generations who will be unable to cross a street in heavy traffic. This wished for real-life-game of Human Frogger might be the only hope of saving the human species.

That's too much to ask, however. For it is the government which not only artificially keeps these people alive, but employed, and which often -- although usually accidentally -- manages to save them from themselves. The Government ensures that these people are always gainfully employed and overpaid. It ensures that their children never get anything resembling an education. It makes certain that Mr-and-Mrs. Dumbass can breed free of the responsibility of, well...everything. The criminal justice system will release Mary Margaret McWhtebread-Squadooch  because she can turn the "Precious Little White Girl" routine on-and-off, and has had plenty of practice with her stupid parents, and an even dumber judge.

There is no hope to change the future unless we can manage to change two things immediately: the government, and the ability to identify the retards by genetic testing, in vitro, before they grow up to become the government. The progressives just might have a point about abortion, after all; the only hole in their argument is that they wish it to be used as birth control of the last resort, when we should be using it as a tool with which to weed out the mental midgets before they become the taxpayer's responsibility.

We can either weep for the future, or we can do something about it. Rein your kids in, and start teaching them about respect and responsibility before I have to smack them around. It's almost like watching slow-motion child abuse to see what some of you have raised.