I used to love kids. In an entirely legal kind of way might I add.
But after 5 years of listening to the snotty faced little cretins down my aisles, I’m done. My main issue is that the fact that this is a workplace as well as a place to shop. Sure, you have to bring your fuck trophy with you, because you can’t afford childcare on your McDonalds wages. (Yes, I consider retail work to be one step higher in the pecking order to flipping burgers, and what). But you could at least try to control your precious little bundle of joy/poop. It’s only crying because you just spent the last 45 minutes talking to your mate Sandra about your irritable bowel syndrome. Remember, you only came in here to buy a chicken korma. How do I know that? BECAUSE YOUR VOICE IS EVEN LOUDER THAN YOUR CHILD. Also, I’m pretty sure Sandra doesn’t want to hear about your bowel movements any more than I want to hear your child’s incessant screeching.