My worst fear: raising little hellions that have a sense of entitlement and don’t understand the meaning of hard work. As a preemptive measure, I’ve decided to take steps to prevent this nightmare from ever being realized.
Kids these days don’t understand the value of money. MTV’s “My Super Sweet Sixteen” is a prime example.
Father: For your birthday, I got you a red Maserati!
Daughter: (face falls) But Daddy, I wanted the black one! (starts to pout)
Father (unveiling a second car): Just kidding, I bought you both!
Daughter: Eeeeeeeee!
Father: AND as a final surprise, I have a fully loaded machine gun (as he starts pumping lead into his daughter and then maniacally turns the gun onto the crowd, shrieking wildly before he’s taken out by his own security guards).
Sickening. Well, to eliminate this prospective situation, I’m going to raise my kids in poverty. I’ll pretend that I don’t have a job and we’ll all live in a run-down hovel, with the roof leaking and the residents shivering and wretched. Clothes will come from Goodwill or the Salvation Army and food will be scavenged from the streets.
The kids will get home from school and follow their normal routine of scavenging the choicest scraps of food from the neighborhood until dark. I supervise sternly and bark outrageous orders to the children, lowering their morale.
“Only bring me the chicken bones that have scraps of meat already pre-dipped in ketchup!”
After the children have eaten and collapsed onto their straw beds from exhaustion and malnutrition, I slip away quietly into the secret room behind the bookshelf and let out a deep contemplative sigh. Turning on the wall-mounted plasma television, I slide into the hot tub as I indulge myself in fresh lobster and caviar.
“How will I make these kids learn?” I think to myself, mid-bite.
“Super Sweet Sixteen” my ass. Through their Spartan lifestyles, my children will never feel any sense of entitlement.
