Ask me about my grandchildren.

Needless to say, this trend disturbed me. I found myself wondering what was wrong with these idiots. Ask me about my grandchildren?

WHY?

It's not a request to ask the wearer of the T-shirt about HER achievements, HER goals, HER accomplishments in life. It says nothing of HER intellect or ambitions. In fact, the only possible accomplishment being touted here is that the wearer of the T-shirt is a bone-stupid breeder, without a life of her own. And now, her kids have become breeders, too.

Isn't that special?

A breeder. God, how unique. How different. How noteworthy. The only thing the wearer of this shirt seems to be announcing is that not only did she drop down like some brain-dead cow in a pasture and shit out a quivering, screeching blob of tissue, but now her own ugly, resource-sucking, useless children have done so, as well. What talent it must take! How remarkable! Let the heavenly host sing "Halellujah"! More people to clog up the planet. More disgusting, screaming children. More dolts who have the audacity to call themselves "parents".

Oh, imagine the pride of it all. You're about to be a grandmother! Your (likely teenage) daughter goes tromping barefoot into the nearest maternity ward--or just squats down in the Wal-Mart dressing room--and proceeds to crap out a bloody, nasty gush of medical waste. Nice, yummy gore and afterbirth, just like the farm animals make. Now, somewhere in this foul, stinking hellbroth will emerge a freakish, red-faced, drooling bastard of a half-wit baby, yowling like some hideous, broken siren. Just feel your heart racing with the thrill of accomplishment! Sure, twenty other equally stupid bimbos are doing it right down the hall, but YOU don't care. You're a grandmother now!

Within the first two weeks--or as soon as your daughter figures out that having children really sucks--you'll be stuck with the goddamn yowling thing. And you'll justifiably want to bash the little shit's head into the trailer wall. But you'll restrain your finer instincts, because you're a grandmother now. Your only job in the world is to attend to every little whim of this puking, shrill little piece of garbage.

The brat will continue to grow, providing that someone (you, or your daughter, or more likely her live-in boyfriend) doesn't murder it first. Unfortunately, as the damned thing grows, it will also acquire the capacity for speech. "Gimme!" the little shit will wail. "Gimme! Gimme! Gimme! ME! ME! ME!". The kid's bullshit will start sounding like a broken record. And you'll fall for it right on cue. You'll be one of those fucking idiots standing in a year-long line at Toys-R-Us at Christmas, duking it out over the chance to buy little Shitney the season's trendiest, most expensive toy--which will be broken and tossed on the dollar table at a rummage sale within a month.

And, alas, the kid keeps right on growing. Well, hop in that line, Grandma! More gifts to buy! More dance recitals, soccer games, and a thousand other time-wasting, meaningless events to attend. Not that your free time is worth a shit to anybody. Remember, your only function is to crawl on your knees and worship the almighty grandchild. Did you want to do something for yourself? Did you want a few moments of private time? Tough shit, Granny. That brat comes first, and don't you forget it.

Eventually, you'll agonize over the little hellion's utter thoughtlessness. "Why didn't wee little Shitney write Granny a thank-you note?" And the answer is, of course, that little Shitney doesn't give a rat's puckered ass about you. She just sees you as a walking gift dispenser. Oh, did little Shitney crap her diapers? Quick, a gift! Did our little Shitney stub her toe? A gift! Did she make it through an entire day without breaking something? Good God almighty, a gift! Did you have to injure her self-esteem by asking her to pretty-please not wipe shit on your carpet, torture the cat, or kick you in the shin? A gift! If you're waiting for gratitude, you're insane. You'll get gratitude when hell freezes over. The spoiled little bitch won't write you a thank-you note when she hits adolescence and you end up bailing her out of jail, either. But she will suddenly rediscover you when she gets knocked up by some dapper young coke addict when she's fifteen.

And then you'll get to do it all over again.

Can't you feel yourself swelling with pride? You're a great-grandmother now! You'd better go cash your Social Security checks. You're going to need every spare dime you can get when your spoiled rotten grand-bitch dumps her darling little fucktrophy in your lap...forever. But hey, it's worth it. Keep telling yourself that. Maybe someday, you'll actually believe it.

The only possible excuse I can think of for some grandparents is that they reached breeder and grand-breeder status before the advent of widely available birth control. Several of my elderly female relatives have plainly told me that if they'd have known about the existence of birth control, they'd NEVER have had children. Sounds sane to me. But any woman who has chosen to continue this sickening breeding cycle since the early 1970s (when everybody in the Western world, right down to the lowest level of moron, knew what birth control was) should bloody well be shot.

What's even worse is that grandparents often ENCOURAGE their own children and grandchildren to throw away their lives on raising kids. If that's not sick, then please tell me what is. For instance, a grandmother could encourage her granddaughter to become a brilliant researcher, a great writer, a physicist, a business executive...but no. She urges her, instead, to beome a mommy--a worthless, mediocre slug whose only achievement consists of crapping out a few kids. And then those kids can grow up and be encouraged to breed, too. Soon, the Earth will be filled to the bursting point with even more nauseating, screeching, pain-in-the ass children. Heaven help us all.

As I edge ever closer to being a senior citizen myself, I would damn well die of SHAME if the only achievement I could dredge up is that I had not only children, but grandchildren. Why don't these people just hammer a giant "L" onto their forehead, for loser?

I think I'll go out and have a T-shirt printed up.

DON'T ask me about my grandkids.