THAT Asshole

I'm sure that most parents have dreams and aspirations for their children. They hope for simple things—healthy, well-adjusted and successful children who aren't in therapy and still living at home at age 35. And they probably also harbor secret desires for their children that they never reveal so that the children don't feel overwhelmed—dreams of their children becoming multi-millionaire CEOs, Jobs-like innovators, or famous entertainers. While I'd certainly like my kids to be successful, I don't spend much time wondering if they'll be brain surgeons, entrepreneurs, or Olympians. In my daily life, I just hope that my kids don't turn out to be THAT ASSHOLE.

I spend an inordinate amount of time worrying that my son or daughter will be the asshole who breaks out a calculator to split up a restaurant tab. I fret over whether my son will be that indecisive dipshit who stands in front of the McDonald's menu for fifteen minutes with hordes of people behind him because he can't make up his mind. Never mind that, judging from his size, the dipshit's blood type is clinically recognized as hamburger, he still can't decide between a Quarter-pounder and a Big Mac. I also shudder at the thought that my son or daughter will be the asshole who waits fifteen minutes for an elevator to ascend one floor instead of walking six steps to the stairs.

I'm fairly certain that I'll be content if my children are able to decipher who the real ASSHOLES are in life. There's no need to impress me with degrees or dollars. And they need not bother with lofty titles or television success. I'll know my struggles through parenthood were well worth the effort if they simply recognize the stupidity of the asshole next to them on the plane, futilely trying to stuff a carry-on bag the length of Manute Bol and the width of Roseanne Barr into an already full overhead storage bin. There's no doubt that success as most people perceive it is a great accomplishment, but only if one never loses direction and becomes THAT ASSHOLE.