Some of you may know that I am a parent, and as a parent you have obligations that you sometimes need to take care of. A child is one of those obligations. You have to feed them, keep them away from chemicals, power tools, wild beasts, and most importantly corporate america.

I work at a giant conglomerate. We have all the tenets of “Johnny Business Casual” here. People drive nice cars, spend way too much on their coffee and shoes, and give creatives a weird look as if to say “Huh, I guess that’s what they teach you at art school” when you walk by them without a collar on your shirt. One thing that is missing is a child care area. That’s right, we don’t have one. That means that if a child shows up on campus, all hell breaks loose. My daughter showed up last week (she’s 2, but we’ll get to that in a second) and nearly broke an ATM, poured some water on some prints of mine, and made a steady stream of noise while here.

Key argument: I brought her here on a Friday, and late in the day. Nobody was around, and she wrecked mostly all of my shit (which she does at home) so I am used to it.

Fast forward to today. Someone in my office has their 8 year old daughter here. Now, if you don’t have a child, or watch a lot of daytime television, or live in a barrio where kids run loose all the time, you may not know that the 8-12 year old girl is usually a binary of either “cute and fun” or “snotty and evil”. Sure, some of you out there don’t believe me. Do yourselves a favor, go to the other side of the GAP this weekend and walk through the kids area. There will be some tramped out mom with her jezebel in training asking for some overpriced nonsense so she can look like LiLo or some other whore. This child is of that ilk. The kind that if you saw someone smacking her in the face, you might say “a little harder, make her cry” in your head.

Look - I work here, or at least I put on a good front, little kid. I don’t want you giving me dirty looks in the hall when you’re looking for pens or toys to steal from people’s desks. Don’t try and run off with my portable hard drive when its plugged in just because its orange and looks like a toy. Don’t ask me where the bathroom is, and don’t tell me “my mommy is your boss” because that’s not true. My boss is Larry, and Larry isn’t here he’s in Detroit, that’s why your little snotty ass can run around like a banshee.

Rare is it when you see a child float on a cloud of politeness and eloquence. When you do, that, more than likely is my daughter. Rest assured, by the time she’s 7 and a half until she goes to college, she will never ever see where I work, unless I work at Target, as the guy at Food Avenue, then I will see her all the time when she goes and gets the carts in the parking lot and walks by the snack counter.

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